


guardians of a rare thing

by yennefers



Category: It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia
Genre: Brief Depictions of Violence, Codependency, Dee/The Waitress (background), Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mutual Pining, Season/Series 12
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-08
Updated: 2019-05-04
Packaged: 2019-05-19 17:17:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 102,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14878031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yennefers/pseuds/yennefers
Summary: Sometimes Mac will kiss him to calm him down. It’s a no strings attached kind of thing, until it isn’t.





	1. Chapter 1

It starts, innocuously and without grace, on a Monday morning sometime in the middle of spring. It starts when Dennis pushes open the door to the bar and is assaulted by a strange yellow haze that makes him scowl and open his mouth, ready to lay into the first person he sees -

before he chokes around what feels like a literal lungful of pollen.

“Jesus _Christ_ ,” he croaks, clawing at his throat.

“Dennis! Great, you’re here, hold these,” Charlie says, and somewhere in the ballpark of two dozen roses are shoved unceremoniously into Dennis’ arms. Dennis wrinkles his nose and drops them, in favour of stumbling backwards and clamping his shirt sleeve firmly over his mouth.

“Shit, Dennis is here?” Dee’s voice says, floating up from behind a heap of tulips that are piled high on the bar. She sounds alarmed - which she should be, Dennis thinks with vicious satisfaction, because the urge to break the necks of everyone in the room except himself is rapidly increasing with every word that comes out of her mouth.

“Dennis is here,” he snaps, voice slightly muffled behind his shirt. “Dennis is here and Dennis would like to know what the _fuck_ is going on, so he has closure after he slaughters all of you and burns your bodies in a dumpster.”

“Can you wait a sec? ‘Cause, you know, I’ve been working on this shit since dawn, I’m kind of in the zone, so,” Charlie says - appearing from nowhere, clutching a bundle of crocuses tied with a limp string of ribbon, which (again) somehow ends up being held by Dennis. He throws them to the floor with a low growl.

“That’s the second bouquet you’ve dropped in the past two minutes, dude,” Charlie points out, “I swear to god-“

“I’m doing it on purpose,” Dennis hisses. Charlie has the audacity to look hurt.

“Oh, come on! That’s a dick move.  _Major_ dick move, I’m working my ass off for these bouquets!”

One of Charlie's flailing hands collides with a harried looking vase of peace lilies. It teeters onto its side and wobbles for a moment, as if debating whether to fall, before it crashes to the floor in an explosion of soil and petals. Dennis sniffs: 70% disdain, 30% pollen.

“We gotta get more,” he hears Frank wheeze from behind a heaped pile of hydrangeas. “This ain’t gonna be nearly enough, Charlie, I’m telling you-“

“You are not getting more!” Dennis yells shrilly. “You are - the fact that you have this many already is a goddamned disaster! We’re all going to suffocate! We’re going to die disgusting, pollen filled deaths and nobody will be able to find the bodies because of all these _fucking flowers_ , Frank, that is how many flowers you have shoved into my bar!”

He is, he notes distantly, sniffling again. He wipes his nose on the sleeve of his shirt and regards the wet patch with disgust.

“Dude, calm down,” Mac’s voice says from behind him. His tone is caught somewhere between soothing and bemused - Dennis hates him for it.

“Were you in on this?” he snarls, pivoting on his heels. Mac raises his hands in placation, stupid brown eyes all wide like a dog that’s been caught getting shit on the carpet.

“No way! Scout’s honour. Swear on my life.”

Dennis watches him for a moment, eyes narrowed. Mac’s voice isn’t doing that weird, wavering thing it usually does when he’s lying. He’s not fidgeting. He does have some sort of blue flower tucked behind one ear, but Dennis chooses to discard that piece of information as quickly as he notices it.

“You were never in scouts, Mac,” he mutters. It’s a weak rebuttal but Mac doesn’t comment on it, just snorts, shoving at Dennis’ shoulders.

“I absolutely was in scouts, bitch,” he says. “So was Charlie, actually, ‘cause we couldn’t afford the entry fees to actual scouts like the rest of you bourgeois scum - Charlie, you remember our scout group, right?”

“Heck Scouts!” Charlie roars, thumping his chest.

“Heck Scouts,” Dennis repeats, with significantly less enthusiasm.

“ _Heck Scouts_ ,” Mac says reverently. “Oh man, those were the _days_. We had it so good, dude - we went camping, we learnt how to wrestle, this old homeless guy taught us how to fish - Charlie’s mom even made us uniforms!”

“Heck Scouts made me into the man I am today,” Charlie announces, spreading his arms out with a grandiose showman’s flourish. “Like - I am who I am, you know, and I am who I am because of the solid education in manhood I got from being a Heck Scout.”

“And sniffin’ glue,” Frank says.

“And sniffing glue,” Charlie amends.

Dennis opens his mouth, ready to refute the majority of these claims (the objective merits of fishing with a homeless man, Charlie having a solid education in manhood, Charlie having a solid education _at all,_  etcetera, etcetera), but his body decides to take that moment to betray him, and he sneezes instead.

It’s... not a pretty sound. No sneeze is a pretty sneeze, to be fair, but Dennis has spent a reasonable amount of time training his body to sneeze quietly, or preferably not at all. This is the antithesis of all that and then some: a nasal bomb blast that sends you reeling into a different plane of reality and snaps you back just as fast.

It takes a few seconds for the dizziness in his head to clear. When it does there’s a hand rubbing his back, slow and steady. Dennis forces himself to shift slightly to the side and out of Mac’s reach.

“I’m fine,” he says tightly, pinching the bridge of his nose. His sinuses feel the way a lit sparkler looks. Christ, his foundation is probably a mess.

“Do you have hayfever, dude?” Charlie says.

“Oh, he does,” Dee whispers, sounding delighted. “He absolutely does, he had it so bad one time when we were kids that our hot nanny resigned after he -”

“I did not sneeze on the hot nanny!” Dennis interrupts hotly - Dee is telling this story all wrong _._ So, so, unbelievably wrong. “You always tell people I sneezed on the hot nanny when the hot nanny leaving was entirely your fault, Dee, don’t try and pass the blame off on me! The responsibility for that travesty lies solely on your goddamn shoulders.”

“He sneezed on the hot nanny,” Dee continues, steamrolling smoothly over Dennis’ protests, “and she got _covered_ in it, like, full-on fire hydrant spray to the face. And then the next morning -“

Dee clicks her fingers.

“Boom. Gone, bitch. Didn’t even say goodbye.”

Charlie, looking utterly enraptured by the whole story, lets out a low whistle. Mac at least has the good grace to look skeptical, and Dennis makes a mental note to spare him when judgement day springs forth.

He rounds on Dee.

“I swear to god,” he says lowly, “Dee, I swear to god, I will -“

He sneezes again. Loudly.

Charlie snickers. Dee joins in, because of course she does, and he hears Frank snort from behind his hydrangea nest, and Dennis feels something white hot and dangerous start to flood from deep in his chest.

“Stop it,” he spits out, “goddamn it, _stop laughing at me!_ ”

There’s a hand on his shoulder - Dennis shrugs it off angrily but it settles there again anyway - and Mac says, “Dude, c’mon. I saw some antihistemics in the back room.”

“Histamines,” Dennis corrects, through gritted teeth.

“Yeah, whatever,” Mac says. “Same thing.”

His fingers are rubbing little circles against Dennis’ shirt. The thought of wrinkled fabric makes him wince, but the sensation of it isn’t entirely terrible.

Dennis stalks towards the back office, Mac a quiet presence following close behind. He feels like crawling out of his skin but he lets Mac stay anyway - not because he wants to, but because he knows already that it‘ll be easier than trying to force him to leave. He reaches for a tissue from the box that’s usually sitting on the desk, but, of course, the box is empty, and someone’s conveniently ripped it to shreds.

“Oh, of course,” Dennis mutters. He buries his face in his hands and laughs, a little choked, resisting the urge to bite down on his palms. “Of course, because why, why would anything ever be where it’s supposed to be in this shithole!”

“Den,” Mac says, quietly. Dennis whirls around to face him, ready to lash out at the nearest available warm body, and then he sees what Mac’s holding in his outstretched palms: a crumpled pack of Kleenex, a box of Benadryl, and a travel sized pot of Dennis’ foundation.

Dennis is struck by a strange, wobbling feeling in his chest. He ignores it, snatching the supplies out of Mac’s hands and forgoing a thank you in favour of blowing his nose and wiping carefully under his eyes.

“Better?” Mac says, when he’s finished blotting - and he says it in a way that makes Dennis’ hackles rise.

“Absolutely not,” he hisses, throwing the tissue onto the floor. “Christ, why would I be better? The bar is still filled with pollen, my nose is on fire, my skin looks diseased, and you’ve apparently seen fit to go through my belongings without permission - but yeah, _sure_ , I’m -“

Mac’s mouth is surprisingly soft. The kiss is soft, too, and it’s slightly off-balance, landing somewhere between Dennis’ chin and his bottom lip. Mac tastes faintly sweet and of the beer he was drinking back in the other room. Dennis’ heart lurches up, then down, and then the kiss breaks as quickly as it began.

There’s a beat of silence.

“What was that?”

Dennis thinks he sounds very calm, all things considered, because the world feels slightly unreal and off-kilter - as though an axis has shifted, one he wasn’t even aware he was relying on in the first place.

Mac fidgets a little, looking down at his feet. When he licks his lips Dennis’ chest clenches up all over again.

“Conflict de-escalation tactic,” he says, in a voice that is desperately trying to be casual. “You were, you know, getting too worked up. I needed to catch you off-guard.”

Dennis raises his eyebrows.

“And where‘d you read about that, exactly?” he drawls, but Mac has apparently decided to either ignore his tone or miss the implication of it altogether.

“Online!” he says, painfully earnest. “I saw an article on it - there were these two soccer players in a fight on the pitch, and they were up in each other’s faces, and then one of them used kissing to break the tension.”

Dennis frowns.

“Mac, that sounds incredibly gay,” he points out.

“It’s really not, though,” Mac says. “I mean, yeah, _I’m_ gay, but this isn’t gay. It’s just psychology, dude. And it worked, didn’t it?”

Dennis rubs his thumb over his bottom lip.

“I guess,” he concedes, reluctantly. “Don’t do it again.”

 

* * *

 

Mac does it again.

A few weeks after Charlie’s inexplicably successful flower ponzi scheme, when everyone’s pockets still run a little deeper than usual, Dennis books a table at Guigino’s for monthly dinner. Or, more accurately: Dennis books a table at Guigino’s for monthly dinner, and Guigino’s decides that he actually hasn’t booked one at all.

“I’m so sorry, sir,” the waiter says apologetically. “We don’t have any record of a booking under that name.”

“See, that’s funny,” Dennis says, saccharine sweet, forcing a smile through gritted teeth. “Because last time I checked, which was last night, you absolutely did.”

The waiter taps halfheartedly on the keyboard in front of him. He glances up at Dennis, looking a little petrified.

“You’re not on the list,” he insists. “Again, I’m incredibly sorry for all of this, but-“

“What about that table?” Dennis snaps, pointing at an empty two-seater in the corner of the room - the placement isn’t perfect but the lighting is decent, Mac always likes being next to a window -

“Sir, that table’s reserved,” the waiter says, and then Dennis feels it: the furious pounding rage that runs hot up his spine and down his fingertips, making his entire body feel as electric and exposed as a live wire.

“Well it’s a good thing I have a fucking reservation, then, isn’t it?” he snarls, tensing his shoulders and getting ready to push past - but just as he darts forward, Mac’s hand closes around his wrist.

“Dennis,” Mac says quietly. “Den, c’mon. Let’s go outside. We just got over our last ban, dude, don’t let this asshole push us into the next one.”

Dennis stands still for a moment, breathing heavily. He thinks about the table in the corner by the window; he thinks about monthly dinner; he thinks about Mac’s fingers, the way they’re moving gently back and forth over his pulse point. It feels like the whole restaurant’s staring at him, watching this exchange go down and waiting to see who come out on top.

“We’re regulars _,”_ he hisses a few minutes later, as they make their way back out into the night and settle against the brick wall next to the restaurant doors. “We are _premium clientele_ , Mac, and they have the gall to treat us like this?”

He breathes out shakily, watching the white mist of his exhale uncurl and fade away into the dark. Mac’s fingers are still holding his wrist in a loose grip.

“I’m sure they’re gonna fire him,” Mac says, but the words falls flat. Dennis still feels like he’s sparking at the edges: like he needs to hit something, or be hit, or burn a building down.

“Well he’s not going to last long anyway, clearly, not with that absolute piss-take of an attitude,” he spits. A strange, cut-off sound makes its way out of the back of his throat.

Like most terrible things, it hurts even worse now it’s had time to sink in. He was humiliated, shamed in front of all those people by a guy who doesn’t even deserve to _look_ at someone like Dennis, let alone speak to him in that way - he wants to go back in there and punch him in the jaw but he can’t, he can’t, he can’t, so he swings his fist back, ready to slam it into the wall -

Mac’s hand tightens its grip on his wrist, tugging it down sharply before his fist can make contact.

“Jesus Christ, stop that,” he snaps, irritated and tight.

Dennis doesn’t bother looking at him. He stares resolutely into the distance instead, his body still thrumming and his fists clenching and unclenching at his side.

Mac exhales - a quiet, exhausted sigh. He still doesn’t let go of Dennis’ wrist but his other hand lifts to cup his jaw, his thumb stroking over Dennis’ cheek and smoothing away the wetness there - his cheeks are damp, Dennis realises, with empty and belated surprise. When did that happen?

“Hey, it’s fine,” Mac murmurs. His voice has gone gentle and low, like he’s talking to something scared or trapped. “Den, it’s fine - look, we’ll go home, watch Thundergun or something. Monthly dinner at our place, just this once.”

“He humiliated me,” Dennis says. He hates the way it comes out: pathetically quiet, all reedy and wet. Mac hushes him, still brushing his thumb over his cheek, back and forth.

“Yeah, buddy, I know,” Mac says. “Real son of a bitch, I agree, I’d go in there and take him out right now if I could, but-“

“We can’t watch Thundergun,” Dennis mutters. “It’s not a movie night, we can’t watch-“

“Then we won’t watch Thundergun,” Mac tells him. “We’ll find something else to watch. We’ve got good taste, dude, it’s not like we don’t have other movies to choose from.”

 _We’re not supposed to watch a movie tonight_ , Dennis thinks. _We were supposed to go to dinner and drink wine and talk, and now we can’t do any of that, and everything‘s gone to shit._

He tries to breathe, but in the space between one minute and the next the night air has turned viscous, syrup-like; every atom of it is sticking to the back of his throat. His face feels bloated and hot and more tears slide down his cheeks even as he tries to force them to stop. A thick, choked sob escapes out of him.

“Hey,” Mac says softly, “hey, no. Come on.”

He uses the hand resting against Dennis’ neck to guide him carefully into a kiss, his tongue sliding over Dennis’ bottom lip. Dennis is still for a moment before sagging forward against Mac’s chest like a puppet with cut strings, chasing after the warm steady heat of his mouth. It’s easy, so easy, to focus on this and only this - the comforting rhythm of it slowly diluting all his bitterness and vitriol into nothing. Mac’s hands are running up and down his arms and he starts trading long kisses for shorter, softer ones that he presses against Dennis’ mouth again and again until they’re barely kisses at all, until the worst of the tension has drained from Dennis’ body and the air around him has transformed back into something breathable.

“Home,” Dennis says hoarsely when they break apart. “Can we - let’s go home.”

“Yeah,” Mac agrees, squeezing Dennis’ wrist one last time. “Hold on.”

Mac lets go of him. He takes his phone out his pocket and dials for a cab. Dennis feels bereft, suddenly, and maybe a little colder than before, but it’s a cool night anyway and he didn’t bring a coat. He wipes his face on his sleeve, making a mental note to shower the second they get back to the apartment, and then he follows Mac to the kerb.

 

* * *

 

He wakes up the next morning curled in his usual position in Dee’s hammock, and his lack of a hangover is a suspicious, if welcome, surprise.

He doesn’t remember drinking the night before - but it’s not out of the ordinary for him to not remember nights-before, anyway. Waking up with some degree of a hangover is as much a part of Dennis’ life as working at Paddy’s is, which begs the question: what happened last night, exactly, if he didn’t get drunk?

He focuses for a moment, trying to dredge the memories up. All he gets are flashes of the incident outside Guigino’s, a hand clutched tight around his wrist, and falling asleep on Mac’s shoulder in the back of a cab.

There’s a loud thump from the kitchen. Dennis scowls and lifts his head off the pillow, about to tell whoever it is to quiet the fuck down, when he hears Mac whisper frantically, “dude, not so loud! He’s sleeping.”

“I want cereal, though,” Charlie’s voice says. “The whole reason I agreed to this was the cereal. I’m not listening to you and all your weird feelings talk without some breakfast, dude, I can’t.”

“Jesus _christ_ ,” Mac says, his voice bordering on a whine. Dennis hears the pad of his footsteps and the gentle thud of a cupboard being carefully opened and closed.

“Here.”

“I’m gonna need a spoon, too.”

“Charlie, you are the last person I would expect to demand a goddamned spoon to eat Cheerios with.”

“Dude,” Charlie protests, sounding aggrieved. There is a pause, and then the air is filled with the unmistakable sound of a hand digging into a cereal bag.

“Are you done?” Mac says. “Can I talk now? Please?”

“Well, clearly you’re going to anyway,” Charlie says, “so-“

“Great, okay, listen - it happened again. Last night.”

Charlie’s crunching stops abruptly.

“You serious?”

“We went out to Guigino’s, there was a problem with the booking or something. Set him right off.”

“Mac,” Charlie says, slowly.

“I know,” Mac says.

“We talked about this, though,” Charlie says through another mouthful of cereal. “This is, like, the worst thing for you.”

“I _know_ , it’s just -“

“Do you remember that time when you two stopped being friends for an hour, and Dee got all those cats stuck in her wall?”

“I thought you and Frank put the cats in the wall?”

“Just listen,” Charlie says, and the cereal box rattles, like he’s waving a dismissive hand. “It’s like - okay. If Dennis is a cat, and he’s in the wall -“

“Where are you going with this, exactly?”

“If Dennis is a cat,” Charlie repeats, louder, “and he’s in the wall, you’re like the calico in this situation. So to get Dennis out, you’ve gotta go in, you see what I mean?”

“I do not,” Mac says. Dennis is on his side.

“What I’m _saying_ is, go in, sure, whatever, but do not get stuck in the wall,” Charlie tells him firmly. “Two cats in a wall is way worse than one - sounds worse, feels worse, smell-wise they’re kinda the same, actually, but -“

Mac groans.

“Dude,” Charlie insists. “I’m trying to make a point.”

“You are not making a point!” Mac hisses. “You are doing the opposite of making a point - I bare my goddamn soul to you and all you do is get your gross fucking hands in my cereal and tell me about cats!”

“Do you want my help or not?” Charlie yells shrilly - Mac shushes him, and Charlie continues in a whisper, “look, all I’m saying is, you’re taking a ton of risks here.”

“I get that, but-“

“Mac,” Charlie says, in a quiet voice that Dennis can count the times he’s heard on one hand. “You know you’re pretty much my best friend, right?”

There’s a brief pause.

“I know that, dude,” Mac says, softly. “You’re mine too. That’s why I called you.”

“You’re taking a lot of risks,” Charlie repeats. Dennis hears him dig around for another handful of cheerios. “Like, I can’t make you stop or anything, but I-“

“I like kissing him,” Mac says, his voice hushed like a prayer. Dennis’ heart leaps into a somersault, and then freezes still.

 _I like kissing him_.

It’s as if the whole world turns to static. Dennis turns the words over in his mind again and again, revelling in them, a little terrified of them: wishing he could pull them apart syllable by syllable and see the thoughts inside.

Mac’s attracted to him. Of course Mac is attracted to him, Dennis knows this in the same way that he knows that Dee is his sister and Frank isn’t his dad - it's a truth he’s lived with and taken for granted for the past twenty five years or so. It’s something he tries to never look at directly, something he has grown used to manipulating from afar.

Dennis knows Mac is attracted to him. It’s another thing entirely to hear Mac say it out loud.

“See, bro, this is exactly the kind of shit I was worried about,” Charlie says. “‘Cause that makes things all _complicated_.”

“It doesn’t have to,” Mac retorts. He sounds like he’s scowling. “Charlie, this doesn’t have to be a thing-thing, it can just - it can be a thing.”

Dennis can practically see Charlie’s frown.

“Best friends help each other out,” Mac continues, hurriedly, “there’s nothing weird about that. And if I... if I get other things from it, then that’s on me. I’m not gonna make Dennis deal with that shit.”

There’s a long silence.

“It helps him,” Mac says, quietly. “Charlie, c’mon, you know he’s been getting worse. This is better than getting a jail sentence for punching some waiter’s lights out.”

A momentary flicker of anger crackles to life in Dennis’ chest (Getting worse? What does Mac mean by that, exactly, and who is Mac to grade Dennis’ behaviour like he’s a kid acting out in class?) but it dies out just as quickly, swallowed up by his curiosity to hear the way this conversation ends.

“All right,” Charlie sighs, riled and done. “Whatever, man, if you’ve found some way to rationalise all this stuff in your head, you go for it, I don’t give a shit. I still think this is all gonna go bad.”

“I’m not gonna let it,” Mac insists stubbornly. Dennis hears another sigh, the sound of footsteps shuffling towards the apartment door, and then:

“I gotta go. Frank and I have got a thing planned under the bridge.”

Mac exhales. Dennis doesn’t need to see him to know he’s running a nervous, jerky hand through his hair.

“Yeah, all right,” Mac says, sounding tired. “See you at the bar.” After a moment, he adds: “Wait, Charlie - give me back the -“

“See you at Paddy’s!” Charlie yells over him, and Dennis hears the apartment door slam shut.

“Son of a bitch,” Mac mutters.

 _I like kissing him_ , Dennis thinks, dazedly. It’s a strange and terrifying feeling, being wanted - but there’s a stranger feeling rising up behind it in a second wave that Dennis is far more afraid of.

Mac is selfish, cowardly, impulsive, and quick to anger. Any tenderness he has is the half-wild and unwieldy sort that only shows itself in quiet, unspoken ways: when he helps Charlie sound out a word, or when he leaves water out for the dogs in the alley. What does it mean, then, that Dennis has apparently become one of these things? That he’s somehow become something Mac will treat tenderly?

Nobody has ever treated Dennis with tenderness. Christ, even his own mother resented him in the end. He’s survived nearly four decades this way. Part of him is pissed at Mac for trying to change that, and part of him is curling around the memory of Mac’s voice saying he likes kissing him, treating it like gold dust, like fresh and untrodden snow, like the first sip of coffee before an early morning shift.  
  
His thoughts are interrupted by the sound of Mac’s footsteps approaching - he closes his eyes and evens his breathing out.

“Dennis?”

Dennis doesn’t move.

“I know you’re awake, dude.”

Dennis lets his eyes flicker open - makes it look clumsy, bleary. He fakes a yawn, and when he speaks he lets the words slur together a little.

“Time is it?”

“Just gone ten,” Mac says, sitting down on the couch. There’s a note of strain under his voice that Dennis only hears because he’s looking for it. “How, uh. How long have you been up for?”

“Well, I heard the door slam,” Dennis replies dryly, pushing himself upright. “And then I heard you call Charlie a son of a bitch. You wanna tell me what that’s about?”

Mac shrugs.

“Not much to tell. He’s a son of a bitch, he stole our cereal. The end.”

Dennis hums, sleepy and amused.

“You’re a good storyteller,” he says, swinging out of the hammock and making an immediately bee-line for the couch, settling down next to Mac. He was faking it at first but the truth is, now he’s up and moving, he realises that he's more tired that he thought.

Dee’s apartment, without her in it, isn’t half-bad. The morning sun softens Mac’s features as it filters in through the windows, highlighting the dimples at the corner of his smiling mouth and the slight and endearing cowlick of his ungelled hair, still wet from the shower. The light catches his eyes, dark brown flickering into gold and back again. Dennis drinks the sight of him in greedily, and remembers Mac’s voice, truthful and quiet:  _I like kissing him._

He keeps looking at Mac. Eventually he zeros in on the mug of coffee Mac’s holding in his hand. Mac must notice, because he quickly moves it up out of Dennis’ reach.

“Get your own, bro,” Mac protests, but he doesn’t resist at all when Dennis tugs his arm back down and plucks the mug neatly out of his hand.

“I have,” Dennis says smugly, taking a sip. He passes it back when he’s done.

They sit there and trade the coffee back and forth until it’s down to the dregs. The whole time, there are at least a dozen questions poised on the tip of Dennis’ tongue ( _What happened last night; did you mean what you said; why aren’t you kissing me if that’s what you want_ ) but he doesn’t say any of them, wary of breaking the warm and comfortable silence that’s covering him and Mac like a cosy knitted throw.

Dennis doesn’t want to break it - and even if he did, he’d know to do it in a way so casual and light that Mac wouldn’t even notice. Mac, apparently, has no such qualms, because the second Dennis puts the empty mug down on the coffee table he says, with all the subtlety of a thunderclap: “Have you been taking your meds?”

It’s - well.

It’s not exactly the question Dennis was expecting.

“Why?”

“Because,” Mac says, in the slow voice of someone who thinks they’re stating the blindingly obvious, “last night you tried to assault a waiter over a dinner reservation, you got us thrown out of Guigino’s, and and then you had a panic attack in the alley outside. Again.”

Dennis grits his teeth.

“I was having a rough night,” he says. “People have rough nights.”

Mac exhales loudly and oh, okay. So he is pissed with him. Great.

“That’s a no, isn’t it,” he mutters.

“It’s an I know my own goddamn body better than you do,” Dennis bites out, stiff and irritated. He gets up and stalks over to the kitchen, overly aware of Mac’s eyes tracking his movements, and starts to prepare the french press with significantly more force than necessary. The earlier sweetness of the morning feels like a faraway dream, replaced by things Dennis is more familiar with: the ugly trinity of frustration, anger, and annoyance prickling under his skin. Why does Mac always have to ruin things like this?

“It’s a prescribed medication, bro,” Mac says, getting up to follow him and apparently unwilling to drop the fucking subject at hand until he’s beaten the damn thing to death. All hail Mac, a holier-than-thou bitch of a martyr: here to try and shape Dennis into something he finds more palatable even if it gets him hit in the process.

Dennis sees red.

“So what?” he shouts, throwing up his hands. “Mac, all of us have been prescribed shit we don’t take! It’s practically a rite of passage at this point!”

“This is different,” Mac snaps, and Dennis sneers at him, his hands itching for something to tear, something to throw - if Mac wants a fight, he can have one.

His eyes settle on the french press at the exact same time that Mac’s do.

It’s a rough, ugly scuffle: Mac tackles him down and has him on the floor in seconds, and he has the upper hand until Dennis knees him sharply in the solar plexus. Mac doubles over, keening in pain, but half a second later he launches himself at Dennis again with renewed vigour - ducking Dennis’ clumsy right hook and evading a kick that ends up slamming into the base of the countertop instead, making the glasses on top rattle. Dennis’ heart ends up in his throat when Mac pins him down on the kitchen floor, his grip on his wrists steady even as Dennis writhes and spits.

“What is wrong with you?” Mac hisses, his breath hot and furious on Dennis’ mouth. “What is - all I did was ask a question and you fucking go at me like this? This is exactly what I’m talking about, Dennis!”

Dennis doesn’t say anything - just stares at Mac, dead eyed and cold, until Mac looks away.

“Don’t,” Mac says, quietly.

“Why not?” Dennis retorts. “This is how you want me, isn’t it? All drugged up so you can just push me around and feel better about yourself.”

Mac closes his eyes. He slumps a little, shoulders sloping down. It’s strange to watch; like all the anger he was holding in his body has vanished from him at once. He lets go of Dennis to sit back on his haunches, rubbing a hand over his face.

“That’s not what I want,” he mutters thickly. Dennis sits up, too - and notices for the first time the shards of what used to be a Batman mug covering the floor, an apparent casualty to their brief flurry of fighting. He wonders how it happened: then his left leg twinges with the memory of trying to kick Mac and missing spectacularly, his foot making landfall on the countertop instead.

Mac snuffles, wiping his nose on the back of his hand. It’s disgusting, and it also makes Dennis’ chest feel heavy and awful in a way he doesn’t want to think about. Mac pushes himself to his feet and tears off a piece of kitchen roll, turning away from Dennis as he wipes his face.

“Mac,” Dennis begins, but Mac turns his head and shoots him a look that says, in no uncertain terms,  _be quiet_. His eyes are red, just a little, and his dark lashes are tacking together.

Dennis swallows. He gets to his feet without a word.

“Go to work,” Mac says, dully. “Just - look, go to work. Get out of here. I’ll clean up.”

Dennis watches as Mac walks silently to the sink, opening the cupboard underneath and taking out a dustpan and brush. He watches Mac kneel down on the kitchen floor and start to sweep up the largest pieces of ceramic that are strewn across it like shrapnel from a bomb, and he wonders why Mac would possibly want to kiss someone like him, when this is all Dennis has to offer in return.

“Go to work, Dennis,” Mac repeats, not looking at him.

Dennis goes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry if this reads a little rough!! 90% of it was written on my phone and the other 10% was written on my laptop at an ungodly hour of the morning, so please lmk if there are any big spelling/grammar issues i didn't catch. part two should be up within a week or so but if i don't update feel free to kick my ass on [tumblr](https://azirapha1e.tumblr.com)


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> general cws for implied vomiting, non-graphic self harm, dissociation, and dennis reynolds being a bastard man.

It takes him three tries to get the driver’s side door open. In the end, he resorts to a method that is as brutal as it is effective: kicking his heel into a particular spot just under the window that he knows from experience will loosen the jammed lock. He leaves a scuff mark on the paint job but he really, truly, couldn’t give less of a shit if he tried - what’s a scuff on your car door, after all, when you’ve already ruined everything else?

Dennis shoves the keys angrily into the ignition and sees his own hand reaching for the french press; presses his foot to the accelerator and sees Mac looming over him, looking dark and furious - he takes a sharp left turn that leaves the wheels squealing and remembers Mac hunched on the floor, eyes rimmed red and cheeks damp, clearing the wreckage left by Dennis’ outburst.

God, he can’t wait to be drunk.

It takes him a moment to realise that there’s music playing from somewhere - and another to realise that it’s coming from inside the car. Mac’s Creed mix blares obnoxiously over the speakers, cutting off abruptly as Dennis ejects the cd one handed and prepares to throw it into the black hole that resides in the backseat. He hesitates, an unfamiliar feeling roiling in his gut, and then he opens the glove compartment and tucks the cd carefully inside, laying it to rest on top of the battered engine manual.

The red light he’s stopped at has turned green. The car behind him blares its horn in two harsh bursts; Dennis flinches.

“I’m going, asshole!” he shouts, pressing his foot on the gas and launching the Range Rover forward unsteadily, just barely keeping below the speed limit.

The rest of his drive to Paddy’s is strewn with other small and sporadic frustrations: some fucker decides he’s god’s gift to cycling and hogs the whole road for at least three blocks, the AC sputters even as the temperature hovers somewhere around 80 degrees, and the stale, muggy air inside the car clings to Dennis’ skin like a film. He’s distinctly aware that he hasn’t showered, and that he’s driving to work in the clothes he slept in - which doesn’t matter, not really, because he keeps a spare button up and a pair of jeans at the bar - but there’s something uniquely distressing about driving through the Philadelphia rush hour in a pair of sweatpants and a woefully thin t-shirt he’s owned since 2006.

By the time he pulls up and cuts the engine off he feels raw with irritation. The prickling feeling is there again, licking flame-like down his arms, settling in his fists and telling him to make something hurt. Dennis pinches his forearm as hard as he can and waits it out, eyes screwed shut, depriving the fire of oxygen until it dulls down to manageable embers.

Dennis’ future plans involve doing the bare minimum required to prep the bar for opening before locking himself in the back office with the bottle of emergency Crown Russe Charlie thinks he’s successfully hidden behind the register. Dennis’ future plans do not, in any way, involve Dee, but as he walks towards the bar’s front door he notices her latest rental car parked up near the sidewalk.

Dread and annoyance slink down into his stomach like a stone. It’s not even her turn to open up shop - which means she’s probably just here to either skim from the register or skim from the keg room, depending on her mood. He hopes, privately, that it’s the register: Dennis wants to be the only person skimming from the keg room today, thank you very much.

Another plan is building, though, hazily taking shape in the back of Dennis’ brain. His hopes for an alcohol fuelled pity party fade away, and are replaced by another idea - an alcohol fuelled pity party with the addition of his sister. Which, while marginally more pathetic, also means that Dennis will get to air some of the grievances hanging heavy in his gut, preferably while he’s too drunk to remember doing it.

Here is a secret: Dee is undeniably the worst, but she also knows Dennis in ways it is only possible to be known by someone who shared the same fucked up childhood as you for over a decade. A lot has changed since the days when they used to hide underneath the comforter together while Frank and Barbara fought it out until the early hours, but there are some things that haven’t, and Dee’s uncanny perceptibility when it comes to Dennis’ emotions is (for better or worse) one of them.

A sibling is a strange thing. They are judge, jury and executioner; they are the priest in the confession booth and the person who’ll mock you for jumping at thunder but keep you company anyway. Dennis has often hated Dee more than anyone else - an intensity of emotion he doesn’t take lightly. Anyone who provokes that kind of response from him is someone valuable enough to keep around.

The bar itself is empty when he steps inside, although the door is unlocked and the lights are on. Dennis heads over to the office, nervous energy and adrenaline prickling under his skin, picking up the pace as he nears the door.

The first thing Dennis says when he strides into the back room is: “I think I’m in love with Mac.”

The second thing Dennis says, higher, alarmed, and at a much louder volume, is: “ _Jesus Christ!_ ”

“Would it kill you to knock first, asshole?” Dee snaps, sliding hastily off The Waitress’ lap - her hair and blouse askew, lips faintly pink and smudged with lip gloss. This is a dream, Dennis decides. A terrible dream, admittedly, but one from which he’s hopefully about to wake up at any moment. A lot of things fall into place at once: Dee’s near-constant absence from her own apartment, the way she’s been ducking out into the back alley in the middle of her shifts to answer phone calls, and most of all, her utter inability to stay with one guy for more than a month.

“Okay,” Dennis says slowly, one hand raised to shade his eyes from the hellscape in front of him. “So you’re a lesbian spinster now. Dee, I have to be honest, I can understand the lesbian part, lord knows you’re getting too long in the tooth to attract a half-decent man, but really? Even when given an opportunity to broaden your horizons, you still choose white trash?”

For a long moment, Dee gapes at him. Then she stands up, stalks around the desk, and slaps him roundly across the face. Hard.

“What the hell was that for?” Dennis yelps, cradling his cheek.

“Dee,” The Waitress begins, sounding worried - Dee turns to her, and her voice is a hell of a lot kinder and quieter than it was when she was speaking to Dennis.

“Just - it’s okay, I promise. Give me a minute. I’ll get him out of here.”

“What is going _on_ ,” Dennis moans.

“All right, dickweed,” Dee hisses, grabbing him by the shirt and dragging him out the door. “Outside.”

Her bony fingers don’t let go of him until she’s frogmarched him over to the bar, the office door slamming shut behind them.

“I think you broke my nose,” Dennis mutters waspishly.

“Good!” Dee snaps. “You deserve it!”

Dennis scowls at her as he grabs a fistful of napkins, shoving them quickly under his nostrils as the blood starts to drip.

“A man can't ask a simple question without being punched in the face?”

“First of all,” Dee says, “I just slapped you around a little, don’t be a bitch. And second, you called me a spinster! In front of my girlfriend! Who you referred to as white trash!”

Dennis raises his eyebrows.

“Girlfriend, huh?” he says. The scathing note in his voice would’ve been far more effective if it weren’t for all the blood and tissue paper.

Dee rolls her eyes up to the ceiling. She makes an unpleasant, frustrated sound.

“Yes, asshole,” she says, tightly. “And if you’ve got a problem with that I can and will slap you again.”

“I don’t have a problem with it,” Dennis protests. “Dee, the idea that I would ever have any sustained interest in your life is ridiculous, don’t be absurd. I couldn’t give a shit who you bang. I just think you could do better.”

“Says the man who’s apparently in love with a guy called Ronald McDonald,” Dee retorts.

Dennis feels his cheeks grow uncomfortably hot. He flicks his gaze down to the floor.

“Touché,” he mutters, adjusting his grip on the bloodstained napkin ball.

“Oh, wow,” Dee says, sounding mildly impressed. “Okay. So you’re not even denying it, then.”

“Dee, I will punch you in the throat,” Dennis snaps thickly, holding the wad of tissues tighter around his nose.

His voice cracks a little at the end. Dee cocks her head at him, considering.

“Sit,” she says, gesturing towards the nearest bar stool. Dennis scowls at her, but does. Dee ducks behind the bar and returns with a beer, which she cracks open and slides across the counter.

“All right. Now talk.”

Dennis takes a long swig of his drink before he does anything else - the beer slides cool down his throat, the familiar taste of it settling his nerves and sending a faint flush of warmth pooling through his body. To her credit, Dee doesn’t push. She waits instead, leaning back against the cash register with her arms crossed, until eventually Dennis mutters: “Mac and I had a disagreement today.”

Dee groans.

“If I get home and any of my stuff is broken -“

“I didn’t break anything,” Dennis snaps. Then he adds, a little lamely, “just a mug. That’s all. Nothing of yours.”

Dee looks as though she’s about to bitch about this some more, before thinking better of it.

“All right,” she says, cautiously. “So, what were you fighting-“

“ _Disagreement_. It was a disagreement.”

Dee rolls her eyes.

“Same thing.”

“It is not the same thing,” Dennis protests, glaring at her. “One implies that - and the other is - christ, never mind. We had a disagreement over medication.”

“The stuff that quack doctor prescribed you?”

Dennis feels a rush of relief. Finally, someone who understands.

“Yeah,” he says, “exactly. The quack pills.”

“Does he think you should stop taking them or something?”

Dennis’ insides turn to ice.

“No,” he says, slowly. “He thinks I should keep taking them. That’s the whole problem.”

Dee is silent for a long moment, watching him.

“I really should’ve hit you again when I had the chance,” she says.

 

* * *

 

In the end, Dee coaxes the rest of the story out of him using an interesting technique that involves coercion, bullying, and two shots of black sambuca. She’s in the midst of pouring a third when Dennis realises, with an unwelcome wave of nausea, that he’s getting too drunk too fast, and waves her off unsteadily.

“No,” Dennis says, “no more shots. Beer.”

“Don’t get picky with me,” Dee warns, but she pours the sambuca carefully back into the bottle before shoving a Coors at him across the counter.

Dennis narrows his eyes.

“You’re not drinking,” he says. “Why aren’t you drinking, I don’t want to get drunk alone. I was very specific about that.”

Dee pinches the bridge of her nose.

“Dennis,” she says, long-sufferingly, “I’m not sure if you’ve noticed this, but we’re alcoholics.”

Dennis squints at her.

“Your point being?”

“We’re not twenty anymore, idiot. And I, for one, don’t want to end up like Frank.”

Dennis rolls his eyes as he takes a slow sip of beer.

“Oh, come on. Frank’s life isn’t that bad.”

“Frank is currently knee-deep in the Delaware with a grown man who may or may not be his son, looking for tidewater muckets,” Dee hisses.

Dennis frowns.

“What in God’s name is a -”

“I don’t know, Dennis! That’s my point!”

“Okay,” Dennis says. “All right, so Frank’s life is that bad. You’re still forgetting the crucial detail that we’re not him. We’re not even related to him, technically speaking.”

“We drink as much as him,” Dee argues. “Probably more. And at least Frank has the excuse of being born ugly - you and me, we’re facing a slow decline from youthful beauty into old, decrepit drunks.”

“Bold of you to assume you had any youthful beauty to begin with,” Dennis mutters, but it’s a halfhearted dig. God, he hates it when Dee has a point.

“So what,” he asks, doubtful and a little disgusted. “You’re teetotal now? Is that what you’re saying?”

“Oh, god no,” Dee says. “I’m not a fucking nun, Jesus Christ. No, I just promised Annie I’d take a few days off a week.”

Dennis wrinkles his nose - and then winces at the resultant stab of pain, regretting that decision instantly.

“Who’s Annie?”

Dee scowls. She reaches out to flick his forearm.

“The Waitress, genius.”

“Wouldn’t have pegged her for an Annie,” Dennis muses. He swills the dregs of his beer around the bottom of the bottle. “Looks more like a Katie to me. Maybe a Mary.”

“Her name’s Annie, she went to Penn State, she’s working at that new hipster bakery place over in Manayunk, and you are not ruining this for me,” Dee tells him, short and sharp.

“Manayunk, huh?” Dennis says. “Damn. Moving up in the world.”

“Dennis,” Dee snaps.

“Dee, I already told you, I don’t give a shit,” Dennis informs her, draining the rest of his beer in one long gulp. “Date her, don’t date her, it really doesn’t matter to me either way.”

Dee watches him for a long time - long enough that Dennis’ leg starts to twitch, itching with the need to run but knowing there’s nowhere worth running to. Dee looks away, folds up a grubby looking dishrag that’s sitting out on the counter and says, in a voice aiming for causal and falling several yards short:

“You know I don’t care if you bang Mac, right?”

“I’m not - I’m not doing that with Mac!” Dennis protests, his voice rising with exasperation.

“But you want to be doing that with Mac,” Dee says, triumphantly.

“No,” Dennis hisses. “I’m not even - I don’t want that. I think. I don’t know. I don’t know what I want to do.”

“Oh, I see what this is,” Dee says, delight spreading slowly through her voice. “Holy shit. You’re asking me for help.”

“No,” Dennis says. “No, Dee, goddamn, _I do not want_ -“

“I can do it,” Dee says breezily. “Sure. Smart of you to come to me.”

“I didn’t come to you!”

“Dennis, it’s okay,” Dee soothes, in a voice so patronising and falsely sweet that hearing it takes five years off Dennis’ life. “I get it. You’re in a difficult situation, you need my unique feminine perspective. I get it!”

“I can assure you that you do not,” Dennis says.

“I mean, the question is,” Dee continues, ignoring him completely as she taps her fingers contemplatively against the bar, “first of all, how do we make Mac forgive you?”

Dennis snorts.

“He always forgives me,” he says, picking at the bottle label. “Just give him a day or two.”

Dee frowns at him.

“Not talking about something doesn’t mean you’re forgiven.”

“No,” Dennis says slowly, looking up at her. “No, I’m pretty sure it does. Out of sight, out of mind, and all that.”

Dee stares at him. Her eyes are overly wide. The effect, if Dennis does say so himself, is quite bird-like.

“Jesus Christ,” she says, faintly. “Okay, here’s a good starting point - you need to apologise to Mac.”

“I have apologised to him!” Dennis insists.

Dee arches an eyebrow.

“It’s - look, the apology is always heavily implied.”

“Implied by what, exactly?”

Dennis resists, narrowly, the urge to stamp his foot.

“You know! Words, and, and - talking. A lack of arguing. It’s an implied apology, which Mac of course understands -“

“So you don’t apologise to him at all,” Dee says. “Ever. Okay. That explains a lot.”

She points at Dennis.

“Step one. You’re gonna make an apology. Explicitly, verbally, and to his face. Without insulting him or bragging about something.”

“Step one,” Dennis says, “one of - there are steps, now?”

“Yes, Dennis,” Dee snaps, “there are steps. Because you, apparently, are so incompetent when it comes to actual human communication that you need a guide to walk you through it.”

“You realise I’m under no obligation to actually do any of this, right?” Dennis points out, his voice slipping into a drawl. “I didn’t even ask for you to stick your nose in my business, you just decided to take that upon yourself.”

“See, that could be true,” Dee says. “Except you’re the one who came into the back office - looking for me - squawking about being in love with Mac.”

“I did not _squawk_ -“

“I mean, the fact you want to talk about it at all,” Dee continues, utterly merciless, “that’s proof right there you’re not handling this well by yourself.”

“You’re not -“

“And finally,” Dee says, with an air of devious confidence that says this is it: her last and most damning piece of evidence, “l’m the only person you could ever talk to about any of this. Mac is obviously out of the question, Frank and Charlie‘s idea of emotional intimacy is crawling on the ground under a blanket together. That leaves me as the only possible candidate.”

Dennis chews his bottom lip. He narrows his eyes, and says:

“What’s in it for you?”

Dee snorts.

“Are you serious?”

“Yes,” Dennis says, “Christ, Dee, obviously I’m serious. Neither of us would do anything for each other if it wasn’t profitable. What’s in it for you?”

Dee pinches the bridge of her nose. The facade slips, momentarily; Dennis’ needling pulling her cover down to the ground and exposing her to the light.

“Dennis, the longer you pine after Mac, the shittier you are to deal with,” Dee says bluntly. “Plus, the sooner you start banging, the sooner you move out, the sooner I get my apartment back.”

“Again,” Dennis interjects, “no banging. I don’t want to bang him. Stop insinuating that I want to bang him.”

“Stop acting like you want to,” Dee says smoothly, “and I will.”

There’s a long, uncomfortable silence. Dee stares at Dennis and Dennis stares right back, unblinking and cold - but Dee’s set something off, struck a match and lit a fuse that’s running down the length of Dennis’ spine - and he wrenches his gaze away and looks down at floor instead, swearing under his breath.

“Hypothetically,” he says, at last. “Entirely hypothetically, what are the next steps in this program idea of yours?”

Dee grins, looking victorious and smug.

“Give me two weeks. I’ll have it all planned out,” she says proudly. Dennis scoffs.

“Please. I’m not waiting that long. Two days.”

“Dennis, there is nobody on this earth who could fix your train wreck of a love life in two days.”

“Jesus,” Dennis says, exasperation leaking into his voice. “Fine. One week.”

Dee considers this for a moment.

“All right,” she says, eventually. “Deal.”

They shake on it - and for moment Dennis is distracted, turning this strange, surreal scenario over in his head with something approaching bemusement - before the reality of it begins to sink in.

“For what it’s worth,” Dee tells him, “I’ve kinda been expecting this conversation for at least the last five years. Me, Frank and Charlie, we have a bet going -“

Dennis’ stomach lurches.

“Say a word to any of them and I will _skin you_ ,” he snarls. Dee flinches, glaring as she takes a step back.

“Oh my god, relax, you dick. I’m not gonna say anything.”

The assurance sounds about as sincere as Dee gets, which offers him a little relief, but his gut doesn’t settle entirely. Dennis has always appreciated privacy. If confidential information isn’t under his control then it isn’t information at all: it’s gossip, plain and simple. People discussing him behind his back, forming conclusions and making assumptions - forcing Dennis to lose control of the way the world views him, which is something he’s been striving to avoid for as long as he can remember.

“Dennis, I won’t tell them,” Dee repeats.

Dennis exhales, protracted and deliberate. He flexes his hands, trying to rid them of the urge to hit and punch and throw, and he doesn’t say anything.

Dee glances over at him. Her expression softens minutely, the frown lines on her forehead easing out.

“You know,” she says, not unkindly, “if you’re looking for suggestions-“

“I’m not.”

“- you could try not pissing him off, for once in your life.”

Dennis picks at the bottle label again.

“It’s not like I intentionally go through life pissing him off, Dee,” he mutters.

“Look,” Dee tells him, "just - don’t be quite as much of an asshole as you usually are. Apologise to him, I’m sure that’ll make his week.”

“Fuck you,” Dennis says. It comes out limp and flat, lacking any heat behind it.

There’s a brief silence.

“Well,” Dee says, jerking a thumb towards the office door. “I’m gonna keep making out with my girlfriend now, and you’re obviously not invited to that rodeo, so. If you want to finish getting drunk, now’s your chance.”

“Oh, I’m going to get spectacularly drunk,” Dennis says. “And I’m going to do it in the keg room, so I don’t have to see you sucking face with the goddamn Waitress.”

“Good call,” Dee tells him. “I don’t want you around if things start getting-“

“Shut up,” Dennis says, grimacing.

Dee pats him on the shoulder, just once. Then she walks back to the office and steps inside, the door quietly clicking shut behind her.

Dennis is still for a moment. He picks at the beer bottle label again and thinks, wildly, about getting in the car and driving home to Dee’s apartment - thinks about the look Mac would have on his face when he saw Dennis walk in, when Dennis took hold of his hands, when he -

Dennis slides off the bar stool and walks over to the cash register, shoving it aside to reveal the bottle of vodka tucked into a small alcove behind it. He makes his way to the keg room, his nose aching and his head bowed.

 

* * *

 

Over the next two hours, Dennis and the Russe get very well acquainted with each other. One of the few definite advantages of owning a bar, in Dennis' opinion, is that you have access to a practically unlimited number of mixers - but as his mini carton of orange juice dwindles, so does the appeal of spirits. Eventually he trades it for a beer he snags from a crate propped up in the corner - he wants drunkenness, not alcohol poisoning. He’s slumped down on the keg room floor, legs splayed out in front of him, when someone tries to push it open and gets it stuck halfway, knocking right into Dennis’ knees.

“Watch it,” he mumbles.

“Dennis,” Charlie’s voice says from the other side of the door, sounding aggrieved. “Bro, you need to move, you’re right in the way.”

“It’s my goddamn bar, I’ll sit where I want,” Dennis tells him. Charlie tries the door again, harder this time. It smacks into Dennis’ leg, making him wince - his knee is going to be bruised to shit for weeks at this rate.

“Charlie?”

Dennis’ heartbeat speeds up, just a little, at the sound of Mac’s voice, at the idea of Mac nearby. He dulls it back down with another swig of beer.

“Dude,” Charlie says, sounding relieved. “Look, can you talk to Dennis, get him to move?”

“Is he okay?” Mac’s voice says. His footsteps speed up. “Charlie, what happened?”

“It’s two in the afternoon and he’s piss ass drunk, that’s what happened.”

“Jesus,” Mac mutters. He raps on the door.

“Bro,” he says, stubbornly. “Move.”

Dennis settles back against the wall and closes his eyes.

“Nah,” he says. “‘m good right there. Thanks.”

“Do you want me to bust the door down?”

“As if you could,” Dennis mutters, but it turns out Mac wasn’t kidding, because he does actually kick the goddamn door firmly enough that it catches Dennis off-guard and forces his legs aside - and then blinding light streams into Dennis’ bolt hole. Dennis groans and covers his eyes with the palm of his hand, curling tighter in on himself.

“Jesus Christ,” Mac says, crouching next to him and tugging Dennis’ fingers away from his face. “The fuck happened to you?”

“Dee,” Dennis says, swatting clumsily at Mac’s prying hands. “Beer. Vodka orange. Then some more beer.”

“You look like shit,” Mac informs him, prodding carefully at Dennis’ nose.

“Sambuca,” Dennis mutters, his voice distant. “I had that too. Only a little bit, though.”

“Up,” Mac says shortly. He gets off his knees and kicks at Dennis’ hip with the toe of his shoe. He’s angry - not the way he was that morning, maybe, but enough that it’s seeping into his voice, clipping the edges and turning them sharp.

“Where’re we going?” Dennis mutters, stumbling to his feet. He leans against the wall as his field of vision bobs and heaves like a boat caught in a storm.

“Bathroom,” Mac tells him. His hand wraps around Dennis’ wrist, tugging him forward. “We need to clean your nose up, dude. It’s fucking nasty.”

“Leave me alone,” Dennis says - and Mac, of course, ignores him, instead half-leading and half-dragging him across the bar and into the women's toilets.

“Leave me _alone_ , Mac,” Dennis snaps again once they’re inside. It’s the kind of viciousness he can usually count on to send people running, but it’s like Mac doesn’t even hear him, herding Dennis closer to the sink until he sits down on the basin’s uncomfortable edge.

Mac busies himself with laying out some first aid shit he’s apparently pilfered from somewhere: paper towels and a wrinkled tube of antiseptic. He runs the sink for a few seconds before taking one of the towels and wetting it under the tap.

“Tilt your head back,” Mac says quietly. Dennis does without thinking, baring his throat as Mac wipes carefully at the underside of his nose.

“How’d you piss Dee off this bad, anyway?” Mac mutters. He’s close enough that Dennis can feel the warmth of his breath when he exhales. Dennis shuts his eyes, and says: “Did you know her and The Waitress are banging?”

“Dee and The _Waitress_?”

“Mhmm.”

Dennis wants to say more - and he could, technically, if he really wanted to - but the slow sweep of Mac’s hands over his jaw as they wipe away the remnants of dried blood is strangely hypnotic.

“Kinda makes sense,” Mac says. He pauses; Dennis can hear the rustle of him switching his dirtied paper towel for a fresh one. “If you think about it, I mean.”

Dennis frowns.

“Explain,” he says, mildly curious.

“Look at it logically, dude,” Mac says, dabbing the fresh towel gently under his nose. “Dee’s pathetic, The Waitress is pathetic. Dee is essentially a loud, irritating bird, The Waitress is essentially a loud, irritating bird. Sometimes people match up.”

Dennis cracks an eye open.

“You think it’s that simple, huh?”

Mac shrugs.

“Can be,” he replies absently, looking down as he trades the paper towel for his tube of neosporin.

He says it so easy, like it’s nothing at all. Dennis hates him for that, just a little. Dennis hates a lot of things about Mac: his neat freak cleaning habits, his hair, his taste in cologne, the way he snores when he has a cold, his selfishness, his cowardice. The soft way he’ll says Dennis’ name, early in the morning or late at night. The way he looks when he’s sleeping.

Mac begins to smooth the neosporin over Dennis’ nose with the tip of his finger. Dennis flinches back, hissing between his teeth.

“I know,” Mac says, “I know, dude, I’m sorry,” and his free hand migrates up to Dennis’ shoulder, squeezing it tight, his thumb moving in slow gentle circles.

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph, _fuck_ ,” Dennis bites out, sinking his teeth hard into his bottom lip and fighting to keep still.

“Gimme two more seconds,” Mac murmurs, and he spreads a final layer over the bridge of Dennis’ nose before stepping away, wiping his hands on the last of the paper towels.

Dennis shuts his eyes again and leans back against the cracked bathroom mirror. He clenches his hands into tight fists as the pain in his nose numbly ebbs and flows.

“I hate that stuff,” he mutters.

“Then stop getting slapped in the face,” Mac says. He’s moved back to stand in front of Dennis again - two fingers under Dennis’ chin, tilting it up so he can look critically at his handiwork.

Rationally, Dennis knows that there’s a chance he’s done a few things over the course of the past twelve hours that Mac might, potentially, have grounds to be pissed about. The trouble is that it is very, very difficult to be rational when he’s unshowered, aching, and tired - when Mac is right there in front of him, warm and solid, unafraid to touch despite Dennis’ best efforts.

Mac stiffens when Dennis leans forward and rests his forehead on his shoulder. He stiffens again when Dennis inhales deeply, breathing in the scent of Mac’s jacket, the familiar warmth of his cologne.

“Dennis,” Mac says, slowly and a little strained.

Dennis’ only reply is to turn his head and tuck his face into the warm curve of Mac’s neck. Mac jumps a little at first, but slowly, when it becomes apparent that Dennis has no intention of moving, he starts to relax. One of his hands lifts up to cup the back of Dennis’ head, fingers carding through his hair.

“You’re so goddamn drunk,” Mac tells him. The sharp edge to his voice has softened into something Dennis would call fondness if he didn’t know better.

“Yeah,” Dennis agrees, voice muffled into the fabric of Mac’s jacket. Mac huffs out a laugh that Dennis feels vibrate against his cheek.

There’s silence for moment, and then Dennis mumbles into the small hollow under Mac’s collarbone: “You really don’t care?”

The fingers in his hair pause, mid-stroke.

“About what?”

“Dee and The Waitress,” Dennis says. “That really doesn’t bother you?”

Mac goes quiet. The stroking resumes, though, which Dennis is privately thankful for.

“Like I said,” he answers eventually, sounding thoughtful. “It’s just - it’s logic, you know? I‘m not gonna say I saw it coming or anything, but I’m not surprised shit turned out the way it did.”

“Mac,” Dennis says. He lifts his head off Mac’s shoulder to look at him, intense and a little bleary eyed, prodding a finger against Mac’s chest.

“What is it?”

“You’re smart,” Dennis informs him. “Sometimes.”

Mac’s eyes go very soft. They crinkle at the edges as he smiles - Dennis’ fingers twitch, wanting to reach out and touch. He doesn’t move.

“Thank you,” Mac says, entirely genuine, and Dennis knows, then, that Mac thinks he’s going to forget about all of this when he sobers up. There’s no way Mac would look at him like that, speak to him so softly, if he ever thought Dennis would remember him doing it.

Dennis opens his mouth - he doesn’t know what he’s going to say but he wants to say something, anything, to make Mac keep talking to him like this - and then promptly closes it again, a roll of nausea running through him. Mac winces, pulling back.

“You good?” he says cautiously.

Dennis nods his head. Then:

“Oh, shit,” he mutters, one hand over his mouth, and stumbles forward into the closest bathroom stall.

 

* * *

 

The specifics of how they get home are lost on him. He remembers leaning on Mac’s shoulder as Mac helped him out the bathroom; Mac and Dee yelling at each other; Mac leading him outside. Mac must have driven - which, while not ideal, was probably a wise course of action given the fact that Dennis passed out the second his head hit the back seat.

He opens his eyes to Mac gently flicking at his nose. He lifts a hand to bat him away.

“Come on, dude,” Mac says.

“No,” Dennis croaks, burrowing deeper into the car upholstery as though he could bury himself in it.

“Yes,” Mac says, tugging on his shoulder insistently until Dennis, with a low, pained growl, uncurls himself and climbs unsteadily out the door.

“S’cold,” Dennis complains as Mac ushers him up the stairs towards Dee’s floor. His hand is around Dennis’ wrist - it’s a familiar sensation, and Dennis tries to focus on that instead of the fact that he feels like something which recently crawled out of a dumpster.

“It’s _June_ ,” Mac says. “You’re just a drunk moron who didn’t eat breakfast.”

He unlocks the door to Dee’s apartment one handed, still gripping Dennis’ forearm. The kitchen floor is oddly clean, like someone’s been over it with a mop. Dennis imagines Mac here by himself: alone and cleaning up the messes Dennis seems to always leave in his wake. His stomach drops, unpleasantly.

Mac sits him down at the kitchen table, and then makes his way over to Dee’s cabinets.

“Was she pissed?”

Mac, midway through inspecting a box of minute rice, cranes his head around to look at him.

“What?”

“Was Dee pissed,” Dennis says again, enunciating carefully, “that we bailed on her?”

“Well, yeah,” Mac says, resuming his foraging. “But, y’know. It’s Dee. Who gives a shit.”

He makes a small, victorious sound - there’s a mysterious rustling from the cabinet, and then he turns around to face Dennis. There’s a can of soup in his hand.

Dennis groans.

“Absolutely not.”

“Gotta eat something, dude,” Mac tells him. “Otherwise the acid in your stomach will dissolve your intestines.”

Dennis frowns at him.

“It’s tomato,” Mac says, as though that sweetens the deal. “No lumps.”

Dennis gets up from his chair, swiping a hand across his face. He grimaces at how oily his skin feels, at the slight fuzz covering his teeth.

“I’m taking a shower,” he says shortly. Mac frowns, a furrow appearing between the line of his brows.

“You gonna be okay by yourself?”

“I’m drunk, not an invalid,” Dennis snaps, and he can’t decide if he’s irritated or grateful when Mac lets him go without trying to follow him.

Dennis has never been one for organised religion, despite Mac’s various attempts over the years to convert him to the contrary, but even he will admit there’s something uniquely spiritual about a hot shower when you need one the most. The steam fogs over the mirror and fills up the room as Dennis leans back against the wall, eyes closed, water thrumming down over his back and washing away the sweat and grime of the morning and the night before.

The deal with Dee, which only hours ago felt just ridiculous enough to work, now fills him with ugly, burning shame. What was he thinking, honestly - being so careless with Dee, of all people, who’s barely even got a solid grip on her own love life but now has blanket permission to meddle with his as she sees fit.

It feels, sometimes, like there are things missing from the core of him that other people already have. Routine is a simple way to fill in the gaps but change inevitably makes them wider - and as a result Dennis spends most of his time struggling to keep the world still, filling in the fault lines with a hardwon collection of universal constants. Schemes and movie nights, working at Paddy’s, monthly dinners; the apartment, too, before it burned down and took a good chunk of Dennis’ stability with it.

Somehow, quietly and unintentionally, Mac has become the centre of it all. He is the grounding body around which everything else orbits - and yet here Dennis is, putting it all at risk.

Dennis reaches numbly for the temperature dial, wrenching it around to maximum. He registers the water stinging as it hits his skin, but he doesn’t feel any warmer.

He steps out. Mechanically, he reaches for a towel and dries himself off. The world feels blurred and strange at the edges.

Clothes, he remembers. He wanted clean clothes, but the walk to the closet feels suddenly like a vast and insurmountable distance, so he looks through the laundry hamper instead, finding a shirt and sweatpants that are musty but wearable. He doesn’t remember opening the bathroom door, walking outside: but he must have done it, because suddenly he’s standing in front of Dee’s small kitchen, staring at Mac’s turned back.

“Hey,” Mac says, looking over his shoulder and smiling at Dennis crookedly. “Just in time, bro. Soup’s ready.”

“Mac,” Dennis says. His ears are ringing. It’s very strange, hearing a voice come out of your mouth and not knowing if it’s your own.

Mac frowns at him. He starts walking over to Dennis, and then -

He walks right past him. The icy dread in Dennis’ chest spreads further, tendrils of it clawing into his limbs like ivy.

Mac can’t see him.

Dennis looks down at his wrists. There are purpling bruises sitting dully on them, ones he dimly remembers putting there that morning while sat in the front seat of his car. He pinches over them again. Pain sparks through him like a signal flare in the dark.

“You left the shower on,” Mac’s voice says from behind him. Then, after Mac catches sight of him: “Dennis - Jesus, no, stop it -“

There are hands around his wrists, stilling them - there’s Mac up in his face, saying angrily, “The hell do you think you’re doing?”

Relief spreads in a warm rush up from his fingers to his chest, expanding outwards with giddy intensity. He stumbles back half a step, and he would’ve fallen further if Mac’s hand hadn’t shot out reflexively, steadying him at his waist, pulling him in close in the process.

“Don’t,” Mac says, the words brushing against Dennis’ mouth, “Fuck, don’t _do_ that,” and then he’s kissing him, pressing and biting at Dennis’ bottom lip like he’s got a point to prove. Dennis is hunched against Mac’s chest in a position that’s very quickly going to get uncomfortable, but he doesn’t care. He can feel the vivid warmth of Mac’s skin, feel the rise and fall of his chest. He claws at Mac’s t-shirt blindly, his fingers clenching tight in the cotton as he kisses him harder, open mouthed. One of Mac’s hands has settled low on Dennis’ back, slipping under his shirt to rest on the skin underneath. The other is resting on the back of Dennis’ neck, and Dennis wishes, the thought fuzzy and half formed, that Mac would grab and take hold of him. Anchor him down.

Their noses brush. Dennis makes a soft, involuntary sound, the skin there still tender - and the hand on his back starts rubbing gently up and down his spine.

“Sorry,” Mac whispers. He tilts his head, careful to avoid to Dennis’ nose, and kisses him again. Slower and sweeter. Dennis hands relax their grip on Mac’s shirt, uncurling to lie flat against Mac’s chest. Mac holds him close, kisses the corner of his mouth before resting his forehead against Dennis’. His eyes are closed, his lashes fanned out against his cheeks. His parted lips are faintly pink.

“Soup’s burned,” Dennis mutters, wrinkling his nose at the acrid smell wafting over from the stove top.

“Fuck it,” Mac says, eyes still closed. “We’ll get Chinese.”

Tokyo Drift, it turns out, is playing on one of the fancy movie channels Dee gets with her cable package. They watch it on the couch under the throw blanket, and Dennis is too tired to turn down the bowl full of honey chicken and rice that Mac puts on his lap, or to bitch about the water and painkillers Mac hands him after dinner.

Somewhere around the forty five minute mark, while Lucas Black leads a group of harried looking extras on a car chase through Tokyo, Dennis’ eyes start to feel heavy. His head slips onto Mac’s shoulder and his heartbeat jumps - he waits, inevitably, for the moment when Mac will stiffen and move away from him, but it doesn’t come. Instead, one of Mac’s hands settles around his shoulders and slowly, tentatively, begins to toy with the curls at the back of Dennis’ neck.

There’s an explosion somewhere on screen, but Dennis doesn’t really hear it. He’s comfortably full and underneath the knitted blanket everything is warm and muted. He lets his eyes slip shut - and he knows that Mac knows he’s faking, but the hand in his hair grows bolder nonetheless. Mac’s fingers card slowly through it and stroke his scalp in a way that makes Dennis wish he could stay like this for a month or so. Maybe two.

They won’t talk about this in the morning. Dennis is all right with that. He won’t want to, anyway: he never does, because there are certain things that can only stay sacred if they stay unspoken, and Dennis would rather have Mac like this, in the safe and quiet hours of the dark, than not have him at all.

On screen, Lucas Black grins at the camera, victorious. Dennis shuts his eyes, presses his nose into the warm hollow of Mac’s neck, and sleeps.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> first of all: if you live in philadelphia, i'd like to take a moment to apologise to you profusely. i'm english, so my knowledge of south philly is based solely on the show, various yelp reviews for philadephia bakeries, and google maps. if you spot anything that feels out of place, please let me know!!
> 
> second: thank you so much to everyone who's commented on this fic, or left kudos, or just plain enjoyed it so far - you make me super happy and smiley and i hope you're having a good day today (and if you're not, i hope tomorrow is kinder to you).
> 
> third: if you fancy having a yell with someone about macden, come chat with me on [tumblr!](https://azirapha1e.tumblr.com)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> cws for non-graphic self harm, internalised homophobia, disordered eating, dissociation, and dennis reynolds yet again being a bastard man.

It’s been a quiet couple of days.  
  
Dennis is proud of himself. He hasn’t yelled. He hasn’t thrown anything. He’s kept his insults brief and to the point, and only used them when someone else threw down the gauntlet first. The orange pill bottle in the bathroom cabinet has stayed unopened and the world, contrary to what everyone else seemed to predict, has not fallen apart.  
  
It’s been a quiet couple of days. Maybe it could have been a quiet week overall, if it weren’t for two things: Mac‘s smile, and Paddy’s Brunch.

 

* * *

  
  
By Thursday, three days after the deal with Dee, June has reached its peak and the heat has peaked with it. 11am finds Dennis slumped over a table nursing a beer that has gone from pleasantly cool to lukewarm in ten minutes flat, and although they’re still hours away from opening the gang has congregated in the bar like flies to honey.  
  
The humid air is sticky and irritable. Dennis would try to pick a fight if he weren’t so lethargic, just for something to do. Dee wipes the bar mechanically, back and forth, and Frank and Charlie take turns eating spoons of something that they’ve decided to store in a large plastic pickle tub. Mac’s at the gym - which Dennis is fine with, he doesn’t particularly care, but it does mean he has nobody to bitch to about this goddamned heatwave except himself.  
  
“What is that?” Dennis says eventually, after it becomes clear that neither Frank nor Charlie are willing to clarify unprovoked. “What is that, and why are you eating it out of a pickle tub?”  
  
“Egg salad,” Charlie says thickly. He swallows, and adds, marginally clearer: “You should try it, dude. It’s great in the heat.”  
  
Dennis pinches the bridge of his nose.  
  
“I cannot think of anything I would rather eat less in the heat,” he says. “Can you put it away, please? Before we get customers? Business is gonna be slow as shit as it is, we don’t need to add two grown men sharing an egg tub into the mix.”  
  
“How do you know it’s gonna be slow as shit?” Frank says, scowling as he scoops another eggy spoonful out of the container. Dennis rolls his eyes.  
  
“Because it’s a nice day, Frank. Nobody wants to come to a bar on a day like this. They’re all out getting raw vegan brunches by the river.”  
  
“Now there’s an idea,” Frank says around his mouthful of egg salad. “Brunch.”  
  
Dennis frowns. Frank’s tone of voice is a dangerous one - Dennis knows already that he’s going to want no part in whatever plot he’s concocting, and he also knows that Frank is going to tell him about it regardless.  
  
He steels himself for the worst.  
  
“What about it?”  
  
Frank swallows, before waving his spoon thoughtfully in Dennis’ direction - a small lump of egg, suddenly made airborne, narrowly avoids landing on Dennis’ shoulder.  
  
“It’s sexy,” Frank says. “It’s the hot new thing. I want to try it.”  
  
Dennis wrinkles his nose.  
  
“We’re a bar, not a brunch spot.”  
  
“Or,” Frank says, wheedling, “we could be both. Back in the 70’s you ate where you drank and drank where you ate.”  
  
“A concept many restaurants still stand behind,” Dennis points out. “Except, as I just said, we’re a bar, not a restaurant, and we have always been a bar, and we will always be a bar, and bars do not serve brunch.”  
  
“Yeah, okay,” Dee says. “I’m in.”  
  
Dennis whirls around, scowling at her.  
  
“Excuse me?”  
  
“Yeah,” Dee says, shrugging. “I like toast, I like avocados, I like scamming money off of rich idiots. I want in on this.”  
  
“Unbelievable,” Dennis says, “this is-“  
  
“What do you say, Charlie?” Frank says. “You wanna be my business partner?”  
  
Charlie frowns.  
  
“I dunno,” he says, slowly. “If we served food, that’d be a lot more Charlie Work, a lot of health code stuff, you know? And I hate doing dishes, man.”  
  
“You wouldn’t do the dishes,” Frank assures him. “Deandra would do the dishes. And I know a guy who can get us a license, no questions.”  
  
“Woah,” Dee says peevishly, “okay, no, I did not agree to-“  
  
Charlie brightens.  
  
“All right!” he crows. “Paddy’s Brunch!”  
  
“I’m not washing dishes!”  
  
“I’ll pay you double,” Frank tells Dee, and Dennis watches his last hope fade before his eyes as she pauses and nods, her expression turning clear.  
  
“We are not doing a brunch scheme!” Dennis blurts out angrily. “I’m discounting this idea as the leader of the group. We’re not doing it.”  
  
“I mean,” Charlie says, “I hate to break it to you, man, but. Y’know. Three against one.”  
  
“When did we put this to a vote?” Dennis retorts. “I don’t recall a vote. There was no vote. This is blatantly undemocratic.”  
  
“Yeah, you’re right,” Frank says. “All those in favour of Paddy’s Brunch, raise your hand.”  
  
He lifts his own up into the air - Dee and Charlie quickly following suit. Dennis remains stony and unmoved.  
  
“The motion passes!” Frank announces triumphantly.  
  
“Wait, wait, wait,” Dennis says - scrabbling for something, _anything_ \- “Mac isn’t here. Mac isn’t here, you idiots, the dynamic is incomplete, we can’t decide anything without -“  
  
The door to the bar opens. Mac, tousle-haired, pink cheeked, riot shirt sticking close to him, walks through it.  
  
“Hey, Mac,” Frank calls out. “You like brunch?”  
  
Mac cocks his head to one side. He frowns, slow and confused.  
  
“I guess?” he says.  
  
A roar of triumph rises up from Frank, Charlie and Dee. Dennis lets out a muffled bastard child of a scream and a groan, and drops his forehead onto the tabletop.  
  
“Why’d you have to agree with them?” he hisses. Mac’s brow furrows again as he slips into the chair across from him.  
  
“Agree to what?” Mac says. He licks his lips and reaches out to unwittingly snag the warm beer Dennis has been holding, grimacing as he takes a sip. Karma at work, in Dennis’ opinion.  
  
“Paddy’s Brunch,” Frank tells him. “We’re doing brunch now. Gotta appeal to the millennial crowd, entice ‘em inside so we can empty their pockets, you see what I’m saying?”  
  
“You want to mug millennials,” Mac says slowly. “Over brunch.”  
  
“He wants to turn Paddy’s into a hipster shithole!” Dennis snaps impatiently. “Like that place where The Waitress works. He wants us coming into work at godawful hours of the day to mash avocados and serve them up to trust fund brats, and he expects us to believe it’s a good idea.”  
  
“I think it is a good idea,” Dee says, raising her hand.  
  
“Dee, shut up,” Dennis growls.  
  
“We’re a bar, though,” Mac says doubtfully. “I don’t think bars serve brunch. Can bars do brunch?”  
  
God, Dennis could fucking kiss him.  
  
“Exactly, Mac,” he says with an air of relieved finality, clapping him on the shoulder from across the table. “We are a _bar_. A fine, well established institution of this city, with a reputation we cannot afford to compromise for the sake of one shitty idea brought up by a man eating egg salad out of a goddamned pickle bucket.”  
  
“First of all,” Frank says sourly, “lay off the eggs. I don’t question your life, you don’t question mine. And second, all I’m saying is - brunch by day, bar by night.”  
  
“Now, that’s interesting,” Charlie says.  
  
“Oh, I like it,” Dee agrees. “It’s catchy. Makes us sound mysterious.”  
  
“It’s sexy,” Frank insists. “Isn’t that what this place has been missing? You gotta keep things fresh. We need to shake it up. Now, I’m gonna say it again: all in favour of Paddy’s Brunch, raise your hand.”  
  
Frank, Charlie and Dee all raise their hands up for the second time that day. Dennis’ arms remain stubbornly folded, until he sees -  
  
“Seriously?” he snaps.  
  
“Sorry, dude,” Mac says, sheepishly. “He had some good points.”  
  
“He had no good points!” Dennis shouts, slamming a fist down on the table. The beer bottle rattles alarmingly. “He had no points at all!”  
  
“Four versus one,” Frank says loudly over the din. “That settles it. We’re doing brunch.”  
  
“Jesus H,” Dennis mutters, getting to his feet. “All right, whatever, do the brunch scheme! I don’t care! Have fun bankrupting yourselves.”  
  
“C’mon, man,” Mac says, earnest brown eyes meeting his. “Stick with us. It’ll be fun.”  
  
Dennis doesn’t answer. He grabs his jacket roughly from over the back of his chair, and starts to walk away.  
  
“Mature,” Dee calls after him. Dennis, without slowing or turning around, puts his middle finger up, and then the door is slamming shut as he heads out into the street.  
  
He takes a deep lungful of air once he’s outside and immediately regrets it, because it’s like breathing in a sauna. Christ, he hates summer. He hates summer, he hates this pointless mess of a scheme, and most of all he hates Mac.  
  
The thing about being one half of a pair is that it comes with responsibility. It’s not essential for them to agree on everything - in all honesty, Dennis would probably get bored if they did - but during situations such as this it’s imperative that they present themselves as a united front. Mac’s betrayal only proves that more clearly.  
  
It’s too hot to walk home and too much effort to take the car, so he stalks down the block towards the Starbucks on 3rd and hopes the sweat isn’t showing through his shirt as he joins the line for the counter. His phone buzzes as he waits.  
_  
where r u?_  
  
Dennis sighs.  
  
_getting coffee._  
  
The little typing bubble pops back up almost immediately - as Dennis knew it would. He already knows what Mac’s going to say, but he keeps looking at the screen anyway.  
  
_iced caramel macchiato with whip pls_  
  
“Excuse me, sir?”  
  
Dennis looks up to find that the line has dwindled without him noticing. The cashier looks at him expectantly as he slips his phone into his pocket.  
  
He order his own (an iced latte with skim) and then, because he values his peace and doesn’t fancy having Mac bitch at him for the rest of the day, he reluctantly orders the caramel macchiato too.  
  
“My girlfriend loves those,” says the girl behind the counter, smiling at him as she rings up the order.  
  
“Yeah?” Dennis says. “My, uh. My friend, he does too.”  
  
He cringes over the stumble but the cashier, thankfully, doesn’t mention it, just hands him his receipt and continues: “I find them way too sweet, you know? Not my thing.”  
  
Dennis nods, because... yes. Exactly. That’s exactly what he’s been telling Mac for the past year and a half.  
  
“He always makes me add whipped cream,” he says absently, focused on shoving his wallet back into his pocket. “I have no idea how he drinks it.”  
  
The cashier laughs a little.  
  
“The things we do for love," she says, smiling at Dennis like they’re in on a joke together. Then she turns to face the next customer, her braid swinging behind her back, like she hasn’t just sent an ice flow plummeting into Dennis’ stomach. 

Is he that obvious? He hadn’t mentioned anything about Mac, hadn’t even said his name, for chrissakes, but if a mention is all it takes -

If a mention is all it takes, this situation is more of a liability than he first thought. 

She’s an idiot, he decides. Just some yuppie brat of a kid: he'd said him and Mac were just friends, hadn’t he? It’s her fault for making assumptions. It’s her fault for misreading things, for not listening to him properly; Dennis never did anything to imply that the relationship between him and Mac was something other than platonic. The blame lies entirely with this idiot for deciding that she has just as much right to make presumptions about Dennis’ life as he does.  
  
It’s unprofessional. It’s sloppy. It’s rude. It would be rude even if he was gay, which he isn’t, because the arrangement he has with Mac doesn’t make him gay, and his feelings don’t either - he just isn’t fully straight. There’s nothing more to it than that.  
  
He sulks next to the wall for a long handful of minutes, waiting for his order to be called. The second the drinks are ready he snatches them off the counter and stalks towards the door.  
  
The cashier girl smiles at him as he walks past. He sneers at her, his lip curling in disgust - and when her face falls it’s almost comical to watch. It’s blisteringly satisfying for one bright and ephemeral moment, and then the feeling in his gut begins to curdle unpleasantly into something he can’t place.  
  
The ugly feeling sticks around as he makes his way back to Paddy’s, but at least the walk itself feels shorter this time around. The heat of the day is marginally easier to survive thanks to the coffee in his hand and his anger has cooled a little by the time he pushes the door open. The rest of the gang are gathered at the back of the bar near the pool table - someone’s dragged the whiteboard out of storage and Frank is scrawling a list on it in his godawful handwriting.  
  
Dennis slips back into his seat across from Mac, silently sliding the coffee over to him. Mac, without so much as a thank you, immediately takes the lid off and starts decimating the thing with shameless enthusiasm, using the straw as a makeshift spoon and eating the whipped cream off the top before he does anything else.  
  
Dennis sniffs. He takes a demure sip out of his own cup.  
  
“It’s the best part,” Mac protests, looking up and catching sight of Dennis’ expression.  
  
“It’s empty calories,” Dennis says. Mac has a smudge of whipped cream just above his top lip that he’s trying very hard not to look at.  
  
“Whatever, bro,” Mac says, shrugging. “Still the best part.”  
  
The whipped cream smudge is still there, mocking Dennis with its very existence. He thinks about leaning across the table and wiping it off with his thumb - something he’s done before more than once - but it feels strangely intimate now, and that stops him from lifting his hand.  
  
The worst thing about being in love with Mac, Dennis reflects, is that he can’t even pretend it’s anything new. The only difference between the Mac and Dennis of this year and the Mac and Dennis of years past is the fact that Dennis has finally decided to put a name on this strange, unwieldy feeling Mac brings out in him. The touching and the sweet-talking, they’ve been doing that for years. They’ve shared a bed, jerked off in the same room, allowed their lives to become hopelessly interconnected and never once done anything substantial to stop it. Purgatory wasn’t so bad until Mac had to go and ruin things that night in the back office, and now all Dennis can think about is how to feels to have more of him.  
  
The lunacy of it is laughable. Dennis Reynolds; overachiever, college graduate, creator of the most efficient system of seduction anyone has ever seen - in love with a guy like Mac. A washed up high school dropout who spent over three decades ass deep in the closet and has a goddamn shamrock tattoo on his thigh.  
  
Dennis gets to his feet. Quietly, while the rest of the gang bickers and waits for Frank to start his theatrics, he heads over to the jukebox and pulls out the flask of crème de menthe tucked behind it. He pours an appropriate amount into his coffee, stirring carefully with his straw to keep the noise down, and then he puts the flask back and sits down again at the table next to Mac, who's in the middle of an incredibly loud conversation with Charlie, and doesn’t seem to have even noticed he got up at all.

That was the goal, Dennis reminds himself. To stay unnoticed. Technically speaking, he did his job flawlessly, but the strange ache in his chest doesn’t go away.

“All right,” Frank shouts, finally putting the cap back on his pen and clapping his hands together. “Everyone quiet. Shut up. Let me explain to you-“  
  
He makes a sweeping gesture towards the whiteboard.  
  
“Paddy’s Brunch.”

Dennis takes a long swig of his spiked coffee, and wishes the cup could swallow him whole.  
  
Frank’s plan, as he expected, is convoluted as all hell. It involves contractors and schedules, the planning of uniform designs - and uniform redesigns, after a motion filed by Charlie mid-presentation - taxes, grocery lists, and budget projections. The words ‘sex appeal’ have been written in caps at the top of the white board and underlined a bunch of times.

Dennis debates, as he stirs the watery remnants of his coffee with his straw, the pros and cons of kicking the whiteboard over. He could knock Frank out and take control of the whole goddamn situation, the way things should have been from the start. It would be so much better, so much easier. It’s ridiculous that nobody has noticed the common denominator to their most successful schemes: if they want something to work, _really_ work, Dennis needs to be at the helm of it all.

His left leg starts to tremble minutely under the table. He pinches his thigh, hard - allowing himself one last fantasy of slapping Frank right around the face before forcing himself to calm down.

Dennis is not in charge. While that is, in his opinion, a mistake that’s going to cost this scam any credibility it was ever capable of having, it could also be his saving grace, because thanks to Frank’s ineptitude this whole thing should be pretty short-lived. There’s no way he’ll be able to pull this off. It would be a different story with anyone else - Dennis shudders to think what would happen if Dee were in charge, for example. The nightmare would probably drag on for months. Frank, though, is a perfect storm of fickle boredom and laziness, and with any luck the scheme will blow over before the week is out.  
  
Sometime after a discussion on the differences between pears and avocados (provoked by Charlie), and sometime before the subsequent argument over the possibility of pears being lesser-evolved avocados (provoked by Dee), Dennis taps out. His mind drifts, inevitably, back to the Starbucks on third. To the girl behind the counter and the way she’d smiled at him.  
  
Dennis isn’t gay. That’s not - he doesn’t have a problem with it, obviously, but he isn’t. If he’s anything at all, he’s probably one of those heteroflexible guys. He messed around a little at Penn, and a little after Penn, but that’s not important, because the truth still remains that he prefers women, has fucked god knows how many women, and he knows exactly who and what he is. Exactly what he deserves.  
  
(Mrs Klinsky had held him down, the first time. He can remember the way her fingernails had pressed painful crescent bruises into his shoulders and his arms. Dennis had learned, after that, that to please a woman you needed to leave emotions by the wayside. Physicality was the key.)  
  
Mac is an unknown variable standing out from the pack. Dennis has hazy memories of learning in high school chemistry that for an experiment’s results to be valid, you have to repeat the whole thing at least three times over. He’s got that covered, then: the back office, Guigino’s, Mac kissing him in Dee’s cramped kitchen.  
  
Dennis thinks on all this for a moment, and decides he’s learned the following things. Firstly, Mac is a better kisser than he’d expected. Second, their arrangement is convenient, efficient, and serves its intended purpose. Third, Dennis is still primarily heterosexual, but he’s also in love with Mac, and that has the possibility to jeopardise everything.  
  
The stability of their arrangement hinges on the fact that Mac doesn’t know about point three. The consequence of this is that if Dennis wants things to continue as they are, which he does, he can’t have Mac finding out about point three - and he is willing to admit he’s been getting sloppy when it comes to hiding it. That’s something he’ll have to fix, in the long term. He’ll meet with Dee at the end of the week, potentially take whatever shit she says into consideration, and then he’ll do what’s safest: shove all this down, put it in a box, and keep an eye on it.  
  
The back of his neck prickles. He looks up and catches Mac in the act of looking at him, unguarded and soft, his lips slightly parted. Dennis meets his eyes and when he does Mac flushes and his gaze flicks down to the tabletop. He can’t see Mac’s face anymore, only his side profile, but he’s grinning, Dennis can tell by his cheeks.

Dennis looks down at his hands. He stares intently at his fingernails, swirls the dregs of his coffee around the bottom of the plastic cup, and then he downs it in one go.

 

* * *

  
  
“I just think you’re being a little judgemental, is all.”  
  
“It is not judgemental to say that I think it’s a bad scam,” Dennis says irritably, leaning back in his chair as Mac fusses around Dee’s small kitchen. “It’s just a statement of opinion.”  
  
“Bro, how can you say it’s bad when it hasn’t even happened yet?”  
  
“Sloppy planning,” Dennis says, ticking off each item on his fingers as he talks. “Vague premise, no guarantee of any profitable returns - and, most importantly, I don’t like it.”  
  
Mac makes a confused sort of noise. It’s either directed towards Dennis or to the pack of instant risotto in his hand, Dennis isn’t sure which.  
  
“But _why_ don’t you like it?”  
  
“Because!” Dennis snaps. “Jesus Christ, Mac, do I need a reason?”  
  
“Talking is important!” Mac insists, putting the risotto back wherever he found it. “It’s - you know, it’s a good way to air - to air your - fuck, what is it -“  
  
“Grievances,” Dennis says. Mac clicks his fingers.  
  
“Exactly,” he says. “You gotta air your grievances.”  
  
Dennis rolls his eyes.  
  
“I don’t need to go to goddamn confession, Mac, thank you.”  
  
“This isn’t confession! First of all, if this were confession we’d have to do this in the bathroom with the shower curtain up, because that’s the only way I’m seeing of recreating the booth -“  
  
“Stop talking,” Dennis says. “For the love of God, stop talking.”  
  
“You couldn’t swear like that at confession either,” Mac mutters, but finally lets the topic drop.  
  
Dennis ducks his head and inhales the steam wafting off the cup of ginger tea in front of him. It’s warm and full of spice, the smell of it settling low in his stomach and assuaging a little of the gnawing hunger pangs he’s has been trying to ignore since they both came home from work.  
  
“What do you want for dinner?” Mac says, his voice slightly muffled and his head stuck in one of the kitchen cupboards.  
  
Dennis takes a small, measured sip from the mug in front of him.  
  
“I’m not hungry.”  
  
Mac huffs out a sigh.  
  
“You can’t just have tea, dude.”  
  
“I am perfectly capable of making my own decisions,” Dennis snaps. “If I want tea, I can have tea.”  
  
“Yeah,” Mac says stubbornly, turning to face him. “And you need to eat. Did you have lunch?”  
  
“Jesus Christ,” Dennis mutters under his breath.  
  
“Dennis.”  
  
“I had coffee,” Dennis says, waving him off. “Drop it already.”  
  
Mac’s frowning at him again.  
  
“Coffee’s not a meal,” he points out. Whether he intends it to or not, the whole statement comes off as patronising. Dennis’ hackles rise.  
  
“You know what?” he spits, “fuck you. You’ve been pissing me off all goddamn day, I don’t have to listen to this.”  
  
He stands up abruptly from the table, the chair legs screeching, and stalks into Dee’s room. Slamming the door feels good, like lightning flashing down from cloud to ground, but the kinetic anger crackling in his fists has yet to even come close to burning itself out.  
  
He needs to be left alone. He needs to go through the motions of his usual exorcism: breathing deep and pinching his thighs and forearms until the roaring in his ears quiets down and his pulse begins to slow.  
  
Naturally, Mac comes barging through the door half a minute later.  
  
“You’re being a dick,” he says flatly. Dennis grins at him, all teeth.  
  
“Oh, I’m sorry,” he says, dangerous and soft. “I’m sorry, Mac. Am I inconveniencing you?”  
  
“Dennis -“  
  
“I forgot to be considerate! I forgot to eat some fucking dinner to make you feel better! You’re pathetic, you know that?”  
  
Mac doesn’t rise to the bait, which somehow makes things worse. He walks forward and his bare feet pad across the floorboards as he steps closer until they’re inches apart.  
  
“You’re being a dick,” Mac repeats bluntly. Then, with the slightest hint of hesitance, he says: “Do you need -“  
  
“Yes,” Dennis snaps, bitten out and short, and Mac wraps a hand roughly around the back of his neck and presses their foreheads together. His other hand settles on Dennis’ hip and his thumb slips under the waistband of Dennis’ sweatpants to stroke slow circles on the skin underneath. Dennis’ breathing hitches.  
  
“You gonna kiss me or what?” he taunts. His fingers clutch tightly at the fabric of Mac’s shirt, curling into fists that are ready to cling or shove, whichever comes first. He hopes Mac can’t feel the way they’re shaking.  
  
“Stop talking,” Mac mutters, and then he ducks his head and kisses Dennis on the mouth.  
  
Dennis would love to know the science behind what makes this so fucking good - the sheer intoxicating pleasure of being kissed and being kissed well. Mac’s faint stubble is grazing over his cheek as Mac trails kisses down his jaw; Mac tilts Dennis’ chin up with his fingers and licks into his mouth, slow and filthy and the only way Dennis wants to be kissed from this moment on.  
  
He can’t think. He doesn’t want to. His senses are full of Mac’s hands straying over his thighs, his ass, Mac’s tongue on his lower lip, the familiar smell of his cologne. He sways a little and Mac takes advantage of his momentum to walk them both backwards slowly, still kissing him, until Dennis’ back hits the wall.  
  
“Oh, fuck,” Dennis breathes out. Mac laughs into the curve of his shoulder as he presses a trail of open mouthed kisses down Dennis’ throat. Dennis’ hands are in his hair before he really realises what he’s doing, pushing his head down.  
  
“Please,” he mumbles, nonsensically, “please, I need -“  
  
The first press of Mac’s teeth against his neck sends a rush of heat shuddering through him that almost has his knees buckling. As it is he sways again, a soft involuntary sound escaping him that Mac seems to like, judging by the way his grip on Dennis tightens. He has Dennis by his wrists - has them splayed out, pressed to wall on either side of his head, and he licks and bites at the tender skin of Dennis’ throat like he was born to do it.  
  
Dennis makes another quiet half-moan as his hips grind against air. Mac hushes him, letting go of his wrists to stroke his hair.  
  
“Den,” he says, hushed and low. “Den.”  
  
This is the point, usually, where he’ll pull away. He’ll ease Dennis down with gentle words and gentler touches, and the memory of this will be hidden away alongside all the other moments they don’t talk about.  
  
Mac doesn't pull away. Dusk has been and gone and the only light in the room is the faint gleam coming in through the window from a nearby street lamp. A car passes in the distance, and another, and Mac is still touching him. His hands are still curled in Dennis’ hair.  
  
Tentatively, Mac shifts in the dark. Dennis feels him move his hips forward until they’re flush against each other: one of Mac’s thighs between his, pressing deliberately against the hard line of Dennis’ cock. Dennis rocks against him, grinding on Mac’s leg, and his breath hitches into a gasp.  
  
“This alright?” Mac murmurs, their noses brushing and his breath hot on Dennis’ mouth. Dennis bares his throat in answer, letting his head fall to one side to give Mac better access. He swallows, his whole body shaking, and he hisses through his teeth when Mac bites another hickey into his neck, soothing the initial sting with his tongue.  
  
Mac’s going to leave marks, he realises, his hips jolting up again as a fresh flood of arousal goes through him. He’s going to have Mac’s mouth on him for days. He grinds helplessly against Mac’s thigh as he thinks about it and when Mac shifts his hips again, pressing their cocks together, he keens, a little strangled. Mac’s kissing over his neck now, quick, messy, open mouthed kisses that make Dennis thrust up against him harder, imagining hazily what it would be like to have Mac blow him. The wet heat around his cock, Mac holding him still against the wall with his hands splayed over Dennis’ hips while Dennis fucks into his mouth. Mac taking him apart, just like that.  
  
Or maybe, Dennis thinks, maybe Mac would let Dennis blow him. Dennis loves sucking dick - the warm weight of a cock filling his mouth, the way it tastes, the way it takes over every single one of his senses. Mac’s hands cupping his jaw and his thumbs stroking Dennis’ cheeks, fucking shallowly into Dennis’ mouth while Dennis sucks him off. Telling Dennis how good he is; better than anything he’s ever had. He’s so caught up in the fantasy that the feeling of a hand slipping down his briefs and closing around him catches him by surprise.  
  
“Fuck,” he pants out. “Fuck, that’s -“  
  
Mac’s still kissing down his neck as he jacks him off, dirty and slow. The end of Dennis’ sentence gets lost in his throat, swallowed up by a moan - Mac’s fingers tighten loosely around his cock, a circle for Dennis to thrust up into, his thumb slipping over the slick head of Dennis’ cock and sending an electric tug of heat straight through Dennis’ gut.  
  
Mac’s saying something into his neck, again and again, breathless and reverent, and it takes Dennis a moment to recognise the sound of his own name. The rhythm of Mac’s hips rutting against his stutters, his cock pressing hard against Dennis’ thigh, and he muffles a quiet, punched out whimper into Dennis’ neck.  
  
Mac just came, Dennis realises. Mac just came in his pants untouched from nothing but grinding against Dennis and touching his cock, and Mac kisses the corner of his mouth as Dennis gasps and scrabbles frantically at the wrinkled mess of Mac’s shirt, wanting him closer, closer, closer.  
  
He comes into Mac’s fist with so much force it feels like being dragged underwater. Mac works him through it, stroking him through his orgasm until he’s shuddering and oversensitive; until he slumps forward in Mac’s arms as they lift up and settle around his shoulders, encouraging him to nestle his head in the crook of Mac’s neck.  
  
There’s a sheen of cooling sweat covering his body that’s making his shirt stick to his skin. Mac shifts a little and presses his lips against Dennis’ forehead, the contact brief enough that Dennis wonders if he’s imagining it even as it happens.  
  
“All good?” Mac says. His thumb is stroking slow over Dennis’ collarbone, and there’s something in his voice that sounds so warm and fond. Dennis thinks maybe he could put a name to it, if he tried.  
  
He swallows thickly. He pushes Mac away, walking on unsteady legs towards the door.  
  
“I need a shower,” he mutters.

The rest of the apartment feels too bright compared to the darkness in Dee’s room. He can feel Mac’s eyes following him. Everything out here is cold and unbalanced; the room tilts a little as he walks but he refuses to turn around, even as every nerve in his body screams out to do the opposite.

If Mac says something, he thinks to himself, he’ll turn. What he’ll do after that is anybody’s guess, but if Mac says something, anything at all, he’ll turn around.

He’s halfway across the living room. Dennis walks a little further until his hand touches the bathroom door, and the apartment stays noiseless except for the quiet hum of electronics and the distant roar of a passing car.

He flicks on the light. The latch clicks shut quietly behind him.

Undressing feels strange. The whole world feels strange - like in the space between the bedroom and the bathroom Dennis has somehow managed to walk into a different reality, a place where he shouldn't exist, taking up space that isn't his. He tugs his clothes off down with numb, clumsy fingers, and he flinches when they ghost over his stomach and his thighs, both tacky with drying come.

The mirror over the sink looms expectantly in front of him. He throws his shirt over it before he steps into the shower, turning the dial as cold as it can go, and he stays there scrubbing his thighs until the tips of his toes turn blue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello friends come hang with me on [tumblr](http://azirapha1e.tumblr.com) all i do is talk about macden and my eternal love for dee reynolds


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> cws for non-explicit self harm, intense suicidal ideation, disordered eating, dissociation, anger issues, and dennis reynolds being a bastard man.

Once, in high school, Dennis had told Charlie he was as useless as he was stupid, because he’d spilt coffee all over the handcrafted note Dennis had been intending to slip into Gina Porowski’s locker. Charlie had gotten this look on his face - like Dennis had slapped him or something - and he’d stumbled out the room so quick that Dennis didn’t even have time to finish his sentence.  
  
“What’s his problem?” Dennis had said, and Mac had snapped, “he’s being held back a grade, asshole,” and stormed out after Charlie. He hadn’t spoken to Dennis for a month afterwards, not even to sell him weed.  
  
Dennis thought the fallout from that had been bad. It’s nothing compared to how he feels now.  
  
He’d heard the front door slam at around ten the night before. Mac isn’t home when Dennis wakes up the next morning. Dennis’ phone stays quiet all through their usual morning check-ins. Mac isn’t at Paddy’s either, when he eventually drags himself into work.  
  
There’s an ugly emptiness in him that feels raw to the touch: Dennis being Dennis, he keeps prodding at it anyway. Why does he care? Why does it matter that they’ve not spoken for a few hours, when he’s gone far longer than this without talking to Mac? Dennis left - but people always leave, in his experience. Mac would’ve walked out too, eventually, he’s just pissed Dennis did it first.  
  
Mac would’ve walked out. Mac doesn’t have any right to be angry, especially since he’s the one who disrupted their system in the first place.  
  
“Where’s your boy toy?” Frank says, the second Dennis walks into the bar. “I need someone to move this stove from the alley into the basement.”  
  
Dennis grits his teeth. He stays quiet.  
  
“Oh, bad move,” Dee says, shaking her head. She’s sat on the barstool closest to the door, sipping a takeaway coffee. “Bad move, Frank. He’s pissed at you now.”  
  
“Both of you shut up,” Dennis snaps. He stalks behind the bar and starts slicing limes with considerably more force than necessary. “Mac’s out.”  
  
Dee frowns.  
  
“Don’t you guys usually do that check-in thing?” she says.  
  
“Let’s change the subject,” Dennis replies tightly, not looking up from the chopping board, “before I do something illegal and mildly regrettable.”  
  
Dee, surprisingly, lets it go. Overall, Dennis estimates he gets around ten blissful minutes of silence before there’s a strange scratching sound from under the floor.  
  
“Hey, Dennis,” Charlie calls out, head poking up from the hatch to the basement. “You know where Mac is?”  
  
Dennis stabs the lime knife into the board with enough force to sink it in half an inch. Dee looks startled, but Dennis ignores it - stabbing an inanimate object is, in his opinion, a healthier course of action than throwing a knife at someone.  
  
“Uh,” says Charlie. “So that’s a no?”  
  
“Has it occurred to you,” Dennis says, slowly looking up from the counter with his fists clenched, “that you could find him yourself? Or text him, even? Instead of forcing me to - oh, Jesus Christ, Charlie, what is _that_?”  
  
Charlie frowns at him as he clambers out the floor hatch.  
  
“What?”  
  
“The black stuff!” Dee snaps loudly. She stands up and backs away, joining Dennis behind the bar. “He’s talking about the black shit on your shirt!”  
  
“Oh!” Charlie says, “oh yeah, no, that’s - it’s just some grease. It’s some grease that I found. Don’t worry about it.”  
  
“That ain’t grease,” Frank says, scowling. “Doesn’t have that good grease smell to it, I’d know if it was grease. Lemme take a look.”  
  
Charlie swallows, and backs away from Frank’s reaching hands.  
  
“Whatever, man,” he says. “Look, how about I just pop in the back office, change my shirt, and then we-“  
  
“It’s around his mouth, too,” Dennis points out, equal parts intrigued and disgusted, internal dramas momentarily forgotten. Charlie makes a strange, strangled sound, and claps a hand over his face.  
  
“Just tell us,” Dee says bluntly. “Charlie, just tell us what it is, come on.”  
  
“Can a guy not have some privacy?” says Charlie, sounding increasingly shrill. “Can a man not get something on his shirt, and maybe a little on his face, and not want to talk about it?”  
  
“Not when the man in question has a history of hiding in sewers, no,” Dennis says.  
  
Charlie’s eyes turn wide and wild. He lowers the hand over his mouth. Dennis winces, and prepares his ears for a Charlie Shriek.  
  
“Hey-o!” Mac’s voice says from the doorway. Fake cheer is oozing from it like oil. “Nobody be pissed that I’m late, I stopped by the Wawa to -“  
  
His voice breaks off. The room is silent.  
  
“Charlie,” Mac says slowly, walking further into the bar and Dennis’ line of sight.  
  
Charlie clears his throat.  
  
“Hey, Mac.”  
  
“If that’s paint, I swear to God -“  
  
“Oh, look at me!” Charlie shouts - and there’s the shrieking, right on cue. “Look at me, I’m Mac and I don’t drink paint! I’m so much better than everyone else because I don’t drink paint!”  
  
“Nobody drinks paint, you idiot!” Dee cuts in, looking disgusted and faintly green. “It’s not edible in the first place!”  
  
“Then why can you pour it into a glass?”  
  
“You can pour anything into a glass!” Dennis says, incredibly exasperated and narrowly resisting the urge to slam his face into the counter. “You can pour  _bleach_ into a glass, are you saying you’d - don’t answer that, actually. Jesus Christ.”  
  
“The label said,” Charlie continues doggedly, “hazelnut premium. It was premium hazelnut paint. I’m not an idiot. I’m not just gonna pick any old flavour.”  
  
“That’s the colour,” Mac snaps.  
  
“Well,” Charlie says. “That’s your opinion.”  
  
“All right!” Frank shouts, clapping his hands together. “All right. Here’s what we’re gonna do. Charlie, you are gonna go back to the apartment. You are gonna hose off. You are gonna get clean clothes. Mac, Dennis - move the crap in the alley into the basement. No more bullshit. I want Paddy’s Brunch open for business by tomorrow morning.”  
  
“And where are you going, exactly?” Dennis asks, frowning.  
  
“Dave and Busters,” Frank says, a manic gleam in his eye. “Got a business meeting to go to.”  
  
“What about me?” Dee says. She sounds affronted. “Don’t I get a role?”  
  
Frank waves a dismissive hand.  
  
“Go bang your girlfriend or something, who gives a shit. I don’t need you around until phase two.”  
  
Dee clenches her fists and makes a strange, almost-noiseless sound, like she’s holding back a scream. Then, she turns tail and stalks out the bar, her coffee forgotten on the countertop.  
  
“Geez,” Charlie says. “What’s her problem?”  
  
“Charlie,” Mac says with a sigh, sounding incredibly tired. “Go change your shirt.”  
  
The atmosphere in the bar shifts when Charlie and Frank let the door slam shut behind them. Mac’s not looking at him - his back turned, face tilted down like he’s looking at his shoes. Dennis always hates when he gets like this.  
  
“Mac,” Dennis says, and Mac says, at the same time: “We should get a start on the shit on the alley.”  
  
“Where have you been?” Dennis demands. Mac looks up at the ceiling and exhales, long and low.  
  
“I don’t want to fight with you,” he mutters.  
  
“Too bad,” Dennis says. Even he’s a little surprised at how cold it comes out. Mac’s still not looking at him; it’s making the itching under his skin worse.  
  
“Dennis, goddamnit, _stop_ ,” Mac snaps - his voice breaks, just a little, on the final syllable, and the painful emptiness in Dennis’ chest starts to collapse in on itself like a black hole. His eyes are drawn to the loose, gel-less mess of Mac’s hair. A loose strand of it is glimmering faintly.  
  
Glitter, he realises. There’s glitter on him.  
  
Dennis’ skin starts to crawl.

He wants to throw a punch, to scratch Mac up with the tips of his fingernails. Mac seems to notice, because he finally looks up and meets Dennis’ eyes. There’s another smudge of glitter on his cheek, catching in the light, and Dennis feels sick just looking at it.

His whole body thrums with something ugly and dangerous. He starts to walk stiffly towards the door.  
  
“Dennis,” Mac says. “Dennis - Jesus fucking Christ, are you even going to pretend to help?”  
  
Dennis’ shoves the door wide open and stumbles out onto the sidewalk. He wants to leave Mac and everything else behind; he wants to abandon the whole goddamn world and exist by himself somewhere hidden and safe. A place where the variables never change. Where the universe never shifts.  
  
Paddy’s would be a bar and nothing else. His body would stay in perfect stasis. He’d never need to eat. Every day he and Mac would come home to their apartment - their apartment, the one he hasn’t seen in years, with its big windows and knick-knacks and shitty art on the walls - and every night Mac would kiss him and go back to being his best friend in the morning when the sun started to rise. They’d never need to talk about it. Not once.  
  
“Wow,” Dee says. She's stood a metre or so away, leaning back against the brick wall of the bar. “You’re really fucked, huh?”  
  
“I thought you went to see The Waitress?” Dennis mutters, glancing over at her. It comes out hoarse - he clears his throat, scrubbing a hand across his eyes.  
  
Dee shrugs.  
  
“She’s in the middle of shift,” she says. “Also, you’ve been looking like shit all morning. Can’t say I’m not intrigued.”  
  
“Fuck you,” Dennis bites back, but there’s no heat behind it.  
  
Dee considers him for a moment. Dennis is well aware of what her expression means - he’s looked at countless people like that himself, his sister included - but it’s disconcerting to be on the receiving end of a stare like the one Dee’s giving him now. It makes him feel like a mouse being judged by a viper.  
  
“Come on,” Dee tells him, apparently seeing something in him worth dissecting, before sinking her talons into his arm and practically dragging him down the street.  
  
“Ow - _Christ_ , Dee, that hurts, let go -“  
  
“Stop whining,” Dee snaps, without slowing down. “I just got them painted, if I see any chips I’m taking twenty bucks out your wallet.”  
  
She only lets go when they’re inside the shitty little hipster café a few minutes down the road, shoving Dennis onto a hideously distressed leather couch that’s smothered in throw-pillows before he has time to protest. The interior of the store is so tiny that she barely has to take five steps to reach the counter. Dennis wrinkles his nose at the smell of stale incense and turns his head to look at the window, staring mournfully at the Starbucks across the street. Dee walks over a few minutes later, carrying two steaming mugs - she keeps one for herself and pushes the other towards Dennis’ side of the table that’s sitting between them. Hot coffee slops over the rim and onto Dennis’ fingertips. He winces.  
  
“So,” Dee asks him, without any prompting. “What did you do?”  
  
“I didn’t do anything,” Dennis mutters, wrapping his hand around the mug to get a firmer grip on it. “Mac, on the other hand -“  
  
“Oh my god,” Dee groans.  
  
“Don’t take that tone with me!” Dennis snaps, pointing at her with his free hand. “That was a tone! Don’t take a tone!”  
  
“I asked you to give me a week,” Dee hisses. “One week, a single goddamn week of human decency, while I figured out how to fix this absolute pit you call a love life, and you couldn’t even give me that!”  
  
“Keep it down,” Dennis whispers furiously, glancing furtively around the store. “Jesus Christ, you’re like a foghorn.”  
  
Dee scowls at him.  
  
“D’you think Mac’s gonna bust out from behind a plant?” she says, setting her mug down. “Catch you talking about all your gooey feelings?”  
  
“I do not have gooey feelings for Mac,” Dennis snaps.  
  
Dee raises her eyebrows.  
  
“So you’re saying love doesn’t count as -“  
  
“First of all,” Dennis says, “None of my feelings are gooey. They are refined, and they are dignified, and you are a bitch. Second, I don’t give a shit about how I feel towards Mac, I care that it’s becoming a problem. Either help me fix it or get out.”  
  
Dee leans forward and flicks his arm. Hard.  
  
“The hell was that for?” Dennis spits, glowering as he rubs his wrist.  
  
“You are a sad, delusional little man,” Dee says coolly. “Don’t call me a bitch.”  
  
Dennis’ chest burns at the rebuttal, and the awful electric feeling begins to build in his fingers.  
  
“I’m a god,” he begins lowly, his clenched knuckles bleached white - but Dee raises her hand again, her freshly painted nails gleaming threateningly, and then Dennis adds, hastily, “all right, all right! Goddamn.”  
  
“Luckily for you,” Dee says, sounding more smug than she has any right to, honestly, “I predicted that you would fuck this up.”  
  
Dennis scowls and opens his mouth, ready to retort - Dee beats him to it.  
  
“Listen up. You’re going to write a letter.”  
  
Dennis’ frown deepens.

“Are you telling me,” he says, slowly, “that it took you a week to figure that out?”

“I -“

“An entire week? Jesus Christ, Dee, I knew you were dumb, but that’s -”  
  
“Okay, first of all,” Dee snaps, “I am saving your ass out of the goodness of my heart, so shut your mouth. Second - I guarantee this letter is different from what you’re thinking.”  
  
“Different how?”  
  
“You can’t lie to him,” Dee says. As though anything has ever been that goddamn simple.

Dennis snorts.  
  
“Yeah, no,” he says, taking another sip of coffee. “Find a better plan.”  
  
“Dennis, there is no better plan. Not for someone like you, at least.”

Dennis lowers his coffee, cautiously. He stares at her.

“And what’s that supposed to mean, exactly?”

Dee rolls her eyes, like he’s missing something blindingly obvious.

“Emotionally constipated. Useless at intimacy. Hasn’t had a genuine relationship since the late nineties.”

“You realise you’re describing yourself?” Dennis says.

“Dennis, one of us is getting laid on the regular, and the other is hung up on his old weed guy from high school.”

“Who now has abs,” Dennis points out. “And relatively decent features. And good hair, sans excessive use of gel.”

“And was your weed guy in high school,” Dee says.

Dennis sighs, tilting his head to stare up at the ceiling.

“Yeah, shit,” he mutters. “He was.”

There’s a pause. Then:

“Here,” Dee says, rummaging through her bag and pushing a crumpled yellow post-it over to his side of the coffee table. “These are your starting points.”

Dennis squints down at a list of bullet points written in her chicken-scratch handwriting.

“At least seven positive statements overall,” he mutters, eyes scanning the paper critically. “Including three compliments? That seems excessive.”

“Do you want this problem solved?” Dee says. Dennis sighs, exasperated.

“Yes.”

 “Then don’t question me,” Dee tells him sternly. “Seven statements. No lies. Just seven things you like - _genuinely like_ \- about Mac. And put an apology in there too, before the guy kills you.”

Apparently she can sense Dennis’ reluctance regarding this whole thing, because she leans forward conspiratorially, and says, “Okay, look. What’s the first letter in that stupid system of yours?”

“D,” Dennis says. “Demonstrate value.”

Dee taps meaningfully at the post-it with her forefinger.

“There you go. Value demonstrated.”

“But I’m not D.E.N.N.I.S-ing Mac,” Dennis argues, frowning. “My end goal isn’t banging him, my end goal is making sure things stay the same.”

“Obviously you’re not D.E.N.N.I.S-ing Mac,” Dee says, soothingly. “You’re D.E.E-ing him. Demonstrate value, engage emotionally, end of problems. You give Mac just enough to work with that he sticks around, you put all this emotional bullshit behind you, and then we all go on like this never happened.”

“So I tell Mac I like him,” Dennis says, slowly. “And after that, I never have to mention it again?”

“Never again,” Dee promises. “You get it all over with in one go. Unless you wanted to, you know. Date him or something.”

“No,” Dennis says quickly. “No, no - I don’t -”

“I know you don’t,” Dee tells him - and her voice is a little too smooth, a little too evenly pitched. It sets something off in the back of his head.

Everyone has an agenda. That’s what Frank used to say when they were kids. Frank used to say a lot of shit when they were kids, admittedly, and very little of it was relevant or appropriate to raising a child, but that phrase has stuck with Dennis from grade school until now. It’s one of the few things Frank ever taught him that had any redeeming value. Dennis himself has an agenda. Dee also has an agenda. The only one he knows in full is his, but Dennis trusts logic, and logic says that nobody speaks in a tone like that unless they have a point to prove.

He makes his decision.

“I’m not doing it,” he says.

Dee rears back, looking startled.

“What?”

“Yeah,” Dennis says, “no, this is too much work for me. Too risky. I’m just gonna repress the hell out of it.”

Dee’s scowl turns deep and murderous.

“We had a deal!” she hisses. “You said I could help!”

“I said you could advise,” Dennis corrects, getting to his feet. “And you did advise. The advice was terrible, so I’m ignoring it. See you at the bar.”

“At least take the post-it, asshole!” Dee yells, throwing it after him as he makes a swift beeline for the door. He sees it flutter to the ground out the corner of his eye - a forlorn and wrinkled yellow square - and then he’s gone, leaving Dee and her bullet points behind him.

 

* * *

 

Dennis does not remember walking to the Wawa. Dennis is aware, however, that he must have at some point walked to the Wawa, because he’s currently stood outside the entrance staring up at the neon sign on the front. Every few seconds, the first ‘A’ flickers.

Dee is an idiot, and this is never more evident that when she tries to be smart. Dennis doesn’t want to be with Mac. Dennis has never wanted to be with anyone. Intimacy is a shell split straight down the middle with friendship on one side and sex on the other, and there has never been any space in his life for the two to combine. That’s why this arrangement between him and Mac has been so efficient; that’s why their friendship is intact. Dennis keeps things separate. Dennis is friends with Mac, and he’s also in love with Mac, but he keeps that second part hidden somewhere deep and dark - the trouble is that despite his best efforts his feelings are putting down roots, pushing upwards towards the light.

Anger rises in him easily and inevitably. The way he feels about Mac rises the same way. He had a lecturer who always used to make a point of bringing that up during psych lectures: extreme emotions are all just different notes of the same chord, when you face them head-on. Hating someone and loving someone can look the same in the right light.

“Excuse me, sir?”

Dennis blinks. Reality slides back into place.

“You’re blocking the entrance,” a woman says, apologetically. There’s a kid sat in the seat of her cart staring at Dennis with big eyes - four, maybe five, with pigtails and a battered looking toy elephant held tight in their fist, the kind you can find by the hundred in a zoo gift shop.

“Sorry,” Dennis says, stepping to one side. The woman smiles at him and her kid waves as the cart goes past. Dennis waves back, lifting one hand up.

Maybe what he needs is a gesture. A friendly, open gesture - just something to remind Mac that Dennis is his best friend, his dynamic other half. Someone that shouldn’t be ignored. Something to tug their friendship back into familiar territory, after the mistake last night. A dinner; he decides. A good dinner - a meal so extravagant and perfect Mac couldn’t possibly fault it - he’ll cook everything, they’ll watch a movie together chosen from the pile of action films stacked next to the tv, and maybe that will help him push all these feelings back down.

He takes his phone out his pocket.  
  
_hey. movie tonight?_  
  
His heartbeat jumps slightly when Mac starts typing.

 _i can’t, closing shift_  
  
And then, a second or so later:  
  
_don’t wait up, i’ll be home late._

Dennis -

Dennis shoves his phone back into his pocket. He walks into the Wawa. He walks out again twenty minutes later, empty handed except for a pack of cigarettes that he smokes with shaking hands in the corner of the parking lot.  
  
Smoking ages your skin, apparently. Beautiful people die young and Dennis has always intended to be the most beautiful of all, so he’s never really let that bother him - but his forties are closing in on him now, inching forward like a foaming tide reaching for the shore, and his heart is still beating, his body‘s still warm. Beautiful people die young: Dennis isn’t dead. He never planned to make it past twenty five but here he is, standing on the edge of middle age, and it _hurts_.

A dull spark of pain registers from his hand - he looks down to find that the cigarette has smouldered down to his fingertips. He idly debates putting it out on his arm, just for something to feel, but Mac would notice the marks. Mac’s the one who talked him into quitting smoking in the first place.

Maybe that's why he should do it after all: to get Mac’s attention back on him, since he’s apparently so intent on ignoring Dennis in favour of strangers he meets in clubs late at night. Men who are probably taller and brighter eyed, who can smile softer than Dennis can. There are people in this world without criminal records, who don’t have bruises covering them like some sort of freak show, but Dennis still expects Mac to choose him. He isn’t even sure why, now he thinks about it.

“Sir? You can’t stay here, I’m sorry.”

Dennis drops the cigarette. It lies crumpled on the concrete next to the other little cigarette corpses.

“Sir, I’m asking you to leave.”

“Who the fuck are you,” Dennis says - and it’s like he’s possessed, like his voice isn’t coming from him. “To tell me where I can and cannot stand?”

He looks up slowly, rain hitting his cheeks and sliding down - there’s a girl in a red Wawa shirt in front of him, sixteen, seventeen, maybe, a hooded raincoat pulled up over her head. She takes a step back.

“I-“

“Go away!” Dennis roars. “Get out! I don’t want you here!”

“Leave or I call the police,” the girl says, backing away further. Her voice is shaking - Dennis snarls wordlessly as he starts to walk towards the main road. The fear in her eyes as she watches him go is vindicating and awful all at once.

The rain is torrential now - the heavens open and thundering down on his hunched shoulders with bullet-like force. Dennis drops the half-empty cigarette pack on the ground as he walks, his interest in it suddenly gone. Fuck Mac. Fuck him, why should Dennis bother playing nice when Mac’s turned against him like this?

He shivers. The rain is soaking him through; he didn’t bring a coat. His stomach hurts, too, aching emptily with hunger cramps. That’s Mac’s fault. Mac’s been tricking him into eating breakfast instead of just having a morning coffee. Hunger is disgusting, he wouldn’t be hungry if it wasn’t for Mac.  
  
Maybe it’s better, really, that Mac finds someone else. Dennis isn’t going to be here long anyway.  
  
When he looks up from the pavement he muzzily recognises the street - there’s a convenience store on his left, a parking garage on his right sitting next to an office block. If he takes a left here he could be back at Dee’s apartment in five minutes, but the idea of going anywhere near it makes him want to scream. A car roars past and splashes a wave of rainwater out the gutter and onto his shoes.

As a rough estimate, it would take him about four steps, maybe five, to reach the centre of the road. He’s driven in this particular kind of Philly downpour before: you can see a few feet in front of the windshield, but anything beyond that is white noise. Nobody would spot him. It would be messy, though. And there’s no guarantee it would be successful. If the angle wasn’t right there’s a chance he wouldn’t be killed by the impact.

Too unclean. Too much risk. Dennis makes a strange, halted sound, strangled and low, and his fingernails dig deeply into his palms as he clenches his fists at his sides.

There’s two weeks worth of pills sitting in the bathroom cabinet. Beers in the fridge and spirits hidden in practically every cupboard. The realisation dawns quietly and without fuss.

Suddenly, like a switch in him has flicked, everything goes calm.

It’ll be like falling asleep. No mess or theatrics. He’ll look beautiful, laid out contrapposto on the bed. Everyone will mourn for him; the whole city and the world beyond it, _everyone_ will mourn for him, but Mac most of all, and afterwards Dennis will live on in him as guilt. The best thing Mac never had. He’ll never have to eat again, never have to grow old. He can stay like this - just like this - immortalised in youth.

The walk back to Dee’s apartment feels like a dream. He is a spectre, making his way into the building, slipping into the lift. His heartbeat speeds up slightly when he opens the front door but he coaxes it back down. This is the right thing to do. He knows it.

This apartment is empty: which logically makes sense, since Mac is working and Dee is probably with The Waitress by now. It makes sense, and he was expecting it, but a part of him stills tightens with disappointment.  
  
He imagines Mac pushing open the front door. Mac hushing him, taking hold of his wrists, pushing him up against the wall like he did the night before and kissing him dirty and slow until Dennis can’t think - until he’s enveloped in Mac’s hold on him, kept close and safe. Mac’s tongue brushing over his bottom lip and into his mouth. The familiar, grounding scent of his cologne. Mac’s hands straying over his hips, his thighs, whispering things into the small space between their bodies that Dennis could hold close and keep with him afterwards, things that would ward off the dark like talismans.  
  
Dennis slumps down slowly against the front door, his back to it and his legs tucked up against his chest. He waits for Dee to come home and open the door - maybe he’ll be able to provoke her into hitting him, that would provide some relief - but ten minutes pass, eventually shifting into an hour, and she never shows either. The Waitress, Dennis remembers, dully. Annie. That’s why Dee’s never home anymore.  
  
Paddy’s is turning into a brunch spot; Dee’s dating the woman they’ve all been mocking mercilessly for the past decade; Mac is out and seems to be happy that way. So much has shifted in so little time.

He misses the old apartment so much it hurts.  
  
With quick, jerky movements, his breath catching in his throat, he rolls up his sleeve and pinches the bruise spotted skin of his forearm sharply - he needs to calm down, he needs to calm _down_ , but he can’t. The world spins dizzyingly, too fast and too much, and Dennis wonders if you can die from this: from the awful, sickening pounding in his heart.

His phone vibrates in his pocket. An electric shock runs through his heartbeat - Mac, he thinks wildly, Mac must be coming home early - but the name lighting up the screen isn’t Mac’s. It’s an email from Dee. She’s titled it ‘homework’.

The strangest things, sometimes, can be lifelines.

Dennis gets to his feet, trembling slightly from leftover adrenaline, his legs numb and aching. The walk to the couch is slow and involves a stumble when his feet slip on the transition from wooden floor to rug. His laptop is tucked under a couch cushion - he pulls it out and sets it upright on the coffee table, opening up his email and clicking through to the latest one from Dee.

She’s sent him a link. A link to a video, and nothing else.

Dennis frowns. He hesitates, and then he opens it.

For a moment, the screen is black except for a little loading icon in the centre. Then: a slow-moving trackshot over just the kind of peppy American suburbia that makes his skin crawl. The picture quality is shit, but Dennis has been willingly watching and rewatching the same bootleg copy of Lethal Weapon for the past twelve years, so it doesn’t bother him too much. There’s soulless 90s pop playing in the background - and then the camera focuses in on some blonde in a vintage Dodge, and Bad Reputation starts plays through his tinny laptop speakers instead.

 _10 Things I Hate About You_ , the opening credits announce.

“Oh, Jesus Christ,” Dennis groans. He leans forward, about to slam his laptop shut, when:

 _“Undulating with desire,”_ the guidance counsellor on-screen says, _"Adrienne removes her crimson cape… excitable, stiff and… Judith? What’s another word for engorged?”_

“Tumescent,” Dennis mutters.

“ _Tumescent_ ,” Kat Stratford says.

Dennis frowns. Hesitantly, cautiously, he leans back in his seat again.

 

* * *

 

10 Things I Hate About You is terrible. It’s highly contrived and unrealistic. The erotica scenes are subpar. Heath Ledger’s accent and certain parts of the soundtrack are welcome breaks from the monotony, but other than that Dennis hates the whole damn thing right down to the ending credits, except -

Except.

Lists are interesting. Lists are a good tactic. You can do a lot with a list. A list is concise and exact, innately suited to separating emotional wheat from chaff. It’s a logical way of explaining someone’s value.

He rewinds the video until Julia Stiles is there on screen, stood up in front of a class of thirty year old extras pretending to be teenagers, looking directly into Heath Ledger’s admittedly beautiful eyes. He listens to the speech she reads out, and then he listens to it again, and again, rewinding back to the same point each time.

There are improvements to be made, obviously. Lots of them. Doing it in public is a terrible idea, and the rhyming is horrendously tacky. If Dennis is going to do this then he’s going to do it better. The word ‘corny’ has never once been in the same vicinity of him, and he doesn’t intend to start sharing space with it now: Julia Stiles may have been the first, but Dennis going to be the best. He will perfect this. He will hone it into something exceptional. And, most importantly of all, he won’t cry while he’s doing it.

The afternoon light outside the window fades into evening. A faint sunset blooms tentatively on the horizon, the same shade of pink you find inside seashells, and the rainstorm from earlier coasts across it in the distance - a faint cluster of dark clouds floating in the vague direction of New Jersey. Dennis sits cross-legged on the couch and scribbles in an old notepad with a biro he found lurking in a kitchen drawer, writing out whole paragraphs before crossing them out again.

His bruised arm aches a little. Every time his mind drifts to the Wawa parking lot his stomach curdles with embarrassment, and every time he remembers he wasted half a pack of perfectly good cigarettes, it curdles even more. From here, stood safely on the other side, it’s hard to remember how it felt to be the person he was five hours ago.

Dennis has no centre: he is unanchored, untethered, uninhibited. He keeps a tight grip on the things and people he finds, sorting through them for the worthiest pieces, and then he settles them in the empty space inside him and hopes they fit. The result is a fragile and intricate structure, not quite a heart, that cracks in the face of change - and what Dennis wants, what he needs, is something steady enough, strong enough, to fill the gap completely.

He doesn’t have anything like that. He does, for better or worse, have Mac.

What Mac is to him now and what Mac could be to him in the future, those are very different things. One is familiar but not quite enough - the other is unknown, but has the potential to be limitless. It also has the potential to be terrible. Being one himself, Dennis has had enough of terrible things. That’s why this list and everything implied by it needs to be crafted perfectly.

It’s fortunate, then, that Dennis enjoys a challenge.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this chapter's a little late!! hopefully the next update should be ready on time. thank you so, so much for reading, leaving kudos, for commenting, and for being so lovely in general - if you feel like kicking my ass into gear, you can do that on [tumblr](http://azirapha1e.tumblr.com)!! unlike dennis reynolds i have no issue with being corny, so here's kat's poem for anyone who wants to relive the pinnacle moment of a classic 1999 teen romcom:
> 
> I hate the way you talk to me  
> And the way you cut your hair.  
> I hate the way you drive my car.  
> I hate it when you stare.  
> I hate your big dumb combat boots  
> And the way you read my mind.  
> I hate you so much it makes me sick.  
> It even makes me rhyme.  
> I hate the way you're always right  
> I hate it when you lie.  
> I hate it when you make me laugh;  
> Even worse when you make me cry.  
> I hate it when you're not around  
> And the fact that you didn't call,  
> But mostly I hate the way I don't hate you;  
> Not even close;  
> Not even a little  
> Not at all.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> general cws for internalised homophobia, dissociation, disordered eating, anger issues, intrusive thoughts, and dennis reynolds continuing to be a bastard man.

  
Dennis’ Saturday morning starts with three things: an aching back, sunlight stabbing his eyelids, and the faint smell of peppermint.  
  
He uncurls reluctantly from his huddled cocoon on the couch, Dee’s ugly knitted throw slipping off his shoulders in the process. He squints at it, confused - the last time he saw the thing it was slung over the side of the hammock, and he knows he didn’t reach for it in the night.

He holds the blanket up to his face, inhaling slowly. There’s a lingering trace of Mac’s painfully cheap shampoo (that explains the mint, then) and the faint dark tang of his cologne. He imagines Mac seeing him asleep on the couch, picking up the throw and tucking it over him in the dark - and then he stops imagining it, because there are some lines you don’t cross when the person you’re thinking about is someone you have to work with for the next nine hours straight.

When he drags himself over to the kitchen, the blanket slung cape-like over his shoulders, he makes a beeline for the coffee pot. Someone’s clearly beaten him to it because it’s sat on the counter already, half-full and steaming. There’s a post-it stuck to the side that says, in Mac’s messy scrawl, ‘ _gym_ ’.

Dennis frowns. Mac’s a perpetual late-riser - he’s seen the man sleep soundly until 4 in the afternoon, for chrissakes - and he also hates aerobics passionately and unashamedly. If Dennis’ memory is correct, the only class at 7am on a Saturday is over-50’s aerobics.

It’s been at least three months, though, since Dennis last checked the gym’s schedule - around three years since he went regularly in any capacity. Over-50’s aerobics could’ve been replaced by underwater kickboxing for all he knows, or something else suitably gimmicky that Mac would enjoy failing at. The timetable’s probably changed, he realises. Sometimes he forgets that things continue to exist even when he isn’t looking at them directly.

He pours out a mug of coffee and leaves it on the side to cool before walking into the bathroom and flicking on the light, brushing his teeth and washing his face. He winces when he catches sight of himself in the mirror - sallow and pale, dark circles under his eyes and lines visible on his forehead.

“It’s that new primer,” he says, peering closer at his reflection and frowning as he pats his cheeks. “I _told_ the bitch at the counter it was going to be too drying. Goddamn Sephora ingrates.”  
  
He finds himself waiting, instinctively, for Mac to call out an answer from the kitchen - a joke, maybe, or something inane about breakfast or work, but his voice never comes. Dennis is left with a silence that’s far more uncomfortable than it was two minutes ago.

He sighs, irritated, and busies himself with his foundation.

“I don’t miss him,” he mutters to the bathroom mirror. Bathroom mirror Dennis stares back at him, silent and sullen. There’s a smudge of unblended powder above his lip, Dennis notices, and he swears under his breath, smooths at it with a careful finger until it’s unnoticeable.

The orange pill bottle is sitting unassumingly on the top shelf of the medicine cabinet. It watches him all through his beauty routine, right down to the final spritzes of setting spray, and eventually Dennis gives up on ignoring it, reaching out to pick it up reluctantly between thumb and forefinger. He shakes it a little, and the contents rattles around.

Yesterday was an irregularity. A single off-day doesn’t prove anything, no matter what everyone else seems to believe: now more than ever he needs to be alert, he need to be able to _think._ Dennis’ life, for the past two decades, has been a chaotic litany of ever-changing schemes and plans, with a central constant built from four assholes and a bar he’s owned since he was barely out of college. It’s been a long time since he’s let any substantial part of that constant change. He can’t afford to get this wrong.

He puts the pill bottle back down. The notebook and pen he discarded the night before are sitting where he left them in the living room - he collects them on his way to the kitchen table and sits down, tugging his coffee towards him and taking a long, reverent sip, letting the caffeine start its work.

Dennis flips the notebook open to his last sheet of notes. He reads through them. He frowns. He crosses the whole thing out and starts writing afresh on the next page over.

* * *

  
By the time 9am rolls around, Dennis walks into the bar with a mood that feels light and easy on his shoulders, the notebook tucked away safely in the inside pocket of his jacket.

“Good morning,” he announces to the room at large.

“G’morn,” Charlie mutters, slumped facedown over a table in one of the booths.

“The fuck have you been?” Frank says, scowling.

“Shut up!” Dee whispers, hushed and furious. One hand is holding her phone to her ear and the other is waving waspishly at Dennis.

Dennis pinches the bridge of his nose.

“Guys, you’re ruining my mood,” he says, mildly irritated. “I’m in a perfectly good, pleasant mood. You’re ruining it.”

“Shut _up_ ,” Dee hisses again. “Dennis, all of you, can you just shut up, please? For one second? For one - oh, goddamn. No. No, no, come back, please, come back -”

She lowers the phone down from her ear. Dennis can hear the faint jingle of a dial tone.

“Dennis, goddamnit!” Dee yells.

Dennis steps back, scowling.

“Oh, don’t start on me!” he protests. “I just got here!”

“And you started talking!” Dee snaps. “Even though I was clearly on the phone, making a phone call!”

Dennis frowns at her.

“So go stand in the alley, then,” he points out. “Dee, this really feels like your fault, you can’t just expect the whole bar to stay silent so you can talk to your girlfriend. That’s incredibly rude.”

“It wasn’t my girlfriend! It was a -”

“What’s Dee’s fault?” Mac says, walking in behind Dennis. Dennis waves a dismissive hand.

“Using her phone in the bar,” he says. Mac nods sagely.

“Alley or bust,” he says. “Rookie mistake.”

“You guys use your phones in the bar all the time!” Dee protests angrily.

“Can you keep it down?” Charlie slurs from his corner, not lifting his head off the table.

“Okay, what is up with you?” Dennis asks, frowning. “You’ve looked half-dead since I walked in.”

“He’s dying,” Frank says.

“‘m dying,” Charlie agrees.

Mac shifts, stepping forward a little to stand next to Dennis. Their shoulders brush, and Dennis focuses on keeping his voice steady.

“Dying from what, exactly?”

“Stove in the basement turned out to be a fire hazard under some bullshit health code regulation,” Frank explains. “So I said to Charlie, try using the furnace, see if we can do anything with that, but -“

“Lotta smoke,” Charlie says. “Whole lotta smoke got up in my lung parts. Carbine - carbon monoxide. That one.”

“Are you saying we could be breathing that shit in?” Dee asks, shrilly, rounding on Frank - for once, Dennis doesn’t she's overreacting.

“No chance,” Frank says. “This was hours ago, Deandra, I aired the place out good afterwards.”

“But we’re supposed to be opening the brunch thing today,” Mac says doubtfully. “How the hell do you serve brunch without an oven?”

“We do have an oven,” Frank insists. “We have the stove in the basement.”

Dennis squints at him.

“The _fire hazard_ stove?”

Frank shrugs.

“Yeah,” he says. “We’ll unplug it when the inspector comes round, don’t worry about it.”

“I’m not worried about scamming an inspector, I’m worried about burning down the goddamn bar!” Dennis snaps.

“Shhh,” Charlie mumbles. “No yellin’."

“And that’s not even _touching_ on the fact that you’ve killed Charlie!” Dennis continues in a scathing stage-whisper. “We haven’t even opened for business yet and our only chef is practically deceased, Frank, congratulations!”

“I can cook,” Charlie says, blearily. “I can do it. I just, I need - Mac?”

“Yeah, buddy?”

“Can you get me the hangover box?”

Mac walks over to the bar and ducks down behind it. He lifts up an empty crate, the kind they get bottles of fruit mixer delivered in, and hefts it over to Charlie’s table.

“What is that?” Dennis says, frowning.

“The hangover box, bro,” Mac says, sounding nonplussed. “How do you not know about the hangover box?”

“I knew about it,” Dennis says, slowly, “I’ve seen it around, I just always assumed it was a box of trash."

“I also assumed it was a box of trash,” says Dee. “Mostly because of the label that says ‘trash’ on the side.”

“Oh, it is trash!” Mac says. “It’s just useful trash. When Charlie and I find bags and other shit around the bar, we take any pain pills out and put them in here. Plus, you know, energy drinks and stuff. Speaking of which - Charlie, what can I get you, my man?”

“I need th’ blue Gatorade,” Charlie mumbles. “And I need some uppers.”

Mac rummages around in the hangover box for a moment. He emerges thirty seconds or so later, Gatorade in one hand, a sandwich bag of nondescript white pills in the other.

“Here we go,” he says, setting them down on the table. “Take one of the Clif bars too, dude. Uppers can get weird on an empty stomach.”

Charlie swallows four of the pills, washing them down with a long swig of Gatorade that empties half the bottle. He opens the Clif bar and quickly but methodically picks the chocolate chips off the top, eating them first before cramming the remaining granola part into his mouth in one go.

“All right,” he mutters, slamming his fists down on the table, eyes screwed shut. “Fuck! Okay. All right.”

“You good?” Mac says - he’s massaging Charlie’s shoulders like a coach preparing a boxer for a fight, and Dennis is aware that this is the strangest and most inconvenient time to feel jealous, but that doesn’t stop him from doing it.

“I’m good,” Charlie says, cracking his neck and shaking out his arms. “Oh boy. All right, Charlie is _back_!”

“Yeah you are,” Mac says, high fiving him before tugging him to his feet. “Get ‘em, tiger!”

“We got thirty minutes before opening,” Frank says. “You three need to get this place lookin’ nice. Charlie?”

“Yeah?” Charlie says, swallowing visibly. His legs are practically vibrating on the spot.

“Come with me,” Frank says darkly. “We’re gonna get that stove hotter than the devil’s shithole.”

 

* * *

 

Paddy’s Brunch is outrageous.

The bar is packed, transformed into the goddamn kitschiest setting Dennis has ever seen: fairy lights plastered over every wall, floral seat cushions, pastel tablecloths, and the kind of old fashioned enamel plates with blue rims that you’d expect a starving Victorian orphan to eat out of. There’s sweat trickling down Dennis’ brow and sticking to the back of his shirt, and it feels like he hasn’t had a spare minute to breathe since the first customers started trailing in.

Paddy’s brunch is outrageous. Paddy’s Brunch is _horrendous_. Paddy’s Brunch is the worst parts of the Superbowl, Black Friday, and Saturday night at the Time Square Olive Garden all rolled into one.

Dennis is -

He’s fine. He’s coping fine.

They’ve had rushes on this scale before - the gay bar incident, various New Years, pretty much every St Paddy’s Day since they opened - and the volume of work is stressful but it’s ultimately doable, the thing that’s getting on his nerves is the food. The endless, endless plates of food. Sugar coated breakfast pastries, oversized smoothie bowls, pancakes glistening with syrup and bacon fat. Hordes of customers eating like pigs at a feeding trough. It’s disgusting.

“Dennis,” Dee says, snapping her fingers in his face as she leans over the counter. “Listen, table ten doesn’t have their toast and they’re getting pissed, can you go see where it is?”

“I am _swamped_ ,” Dennis says through gritted teeth, pouring out yet another mimosa, “in bullshit cocktail orders, I do not have - here you go, ma’am! You too, have a great day! - I do not have time to go down to the basement and see if Charlie’s goddamn gassed himself again.”

“I’ll split my tips with you,” Dee pleads. Dennis frowns, midway through cutting a lemon wedge.

“Seventy-thirty.”

“Fifty-fifty.”

“Fifty-fifty,” Dennis says, “and you pay for my gas this week.”

“Fine,” Dee hisses. “Whatever, can you just go? Please? Before that bitch stabs her fork through my eye?”

“I’m going, for god’s sake,” Dennis snaps, and then he slips away from the counter and through the basement door. The second he opens it he’s hit immediately by a wave of smoke and heat that threatens to knock him off his feet.

“Christ,” he mutters, waving a hand in front of his face in a vain attempt to clear the air. “Charlie?”

“What do you want?” Charlie’s voice hollers out from somewhere in the fog.

“Toast,” Dennis shouts back. “Toast for table ten.”

There’s the sound of hurried footsteps - and then the deafening clang of something large and metallic crashing to the floor.

“Toast,” Charlie says wildly, appearing seemingly from nowhere out of the smoke like some sort of basement dwelling phantom. He shoves a plate of sourdough into Dennis’ hands. His cheeks are pink and his pupils are blown black, hair slicked back with grease and sweat and a grubby blue bandana.

“The thing that fell,” Dennis asks, cautiously, “was that anything important, or -“

“Don’t worry about it,” Charlie says, “don’t worry about it, it’s all, y’know, it’s under control. Frank? Buddy, turn the stove up higher.”

“You gotta be careful with this thing, Charlie,” Frank’s voice says from somewhere in the haze.

“I got it,” Charlie says, rapid and borderline incomprehensible, “stop worrying about it, I got it, I got it, I got it.”

”I don’t think you do, though,” Dennis says.

“Just take the toast, dude, because I’m trying to run a kitchen here!” Charlie shouts, shooing Dennis away - and then he’s gone, retreating back into the cavernous, smoke-filled depths of the basement.

“Are you sure this is max temp?” he hears Charlie say, distantly.

“Max temp,” Frank’s voice says. “Holdin’ steady as she goes. I think we’re in the clear.”

Thirty seconds later, the fire alarm begins to blare.

 

* * *

 

Once the last customers have trailed out the door and the literal and figurative smoke has cleared, the bar resembles a particularly colourful warzone. The tables, now deserted, are still strewn with uncleared plates and glasses - there’s a puddle of something sticky on the keg room floor that’s either blood or pomegranate juice, possibly a mix of the two.

Frank hunkers down in the back office with their takings, Dee makes a pilgrimage to the café down the street, and Dennis settles in a far corner booth, nursing a well earned glass of ice water, watching Mac and Charlie mess around with the pool table. Charlie’s a mess: his white shirt so grease-stained that it looks grey, his hair a tangled bird’s nest and his cheeks still a little ruddy. Mac, on the other hand, looks - acceptable. Unfairly good, to be honest, for someone who just spent seven hours carding and chaperoning a room full of hungry drunks. Who did Mac kill for baby smooth skin and dimples at forty, that’s what Dennis wants to know.

“Okay,” Mac is saying. “You know what you’re doing?”  
  
“Yup,” Charlie says, “yeah. Yeah, I got it.”  
  
“So you’re gonna hit the white one,” Mac says, miming taking a shot with his pool cue - Dennis’ eyes dart to his arms, and dart away just as quick. “And you’re gonna aim it -“  
  
“Aim it at the black one,” Charlie finishes.  
  
“‘Atta boy!” Mac crows, slapping an arm around Charlie’s shoulders.  
  
Charlie chest puffs out as he inhales. He screws his eyes shut, pulls the pool cue back, settles the tip on his forefinger, and -  
  
”Holy shit,” Mac says, stunned and delighted. “Charlie, holy shit, that was -“  
  
“Was that good?”  
  
”Bro, that was a trick shot!”

“Oh, shit!” Charlie says, utterly euphoric. “Hey, Dennis, did you see that?”

“Yeah, I saw,” Dennis mutters, stretching his arms and cracking his wrists. “Nice butterfly.”

Charlie and Mac both start frowning at him.

“The hell are you talking about?” Mac asks, brows furrowed. Dennis rolls his eyes.

“The shot, idiot. A butterfly’s when you land all six in one go.”  
  
“Huh,” says Charlie. He sounds mildly bemused.

“It’s nice to look at,” Dennis says, rolling up his sleeves and getting to his feet, “but, y’know, finesse-wise, it’s actually pretty simple.”

He snatches Mac’s pool cue out of his hands and picks the balls out from the corner pockets, setting them deliberately on the table felt.

“Let me show you something,” he says - ostensibly to both of them, but his eyes lock with Mac’s and linger there. Mac raises an eyebrow, like he’s daring Dennis to look away first.

“Let me show you,” Dennis says, “a _real_ trick shot.”

Dennis had a girlfriend back at Penn - Cara Landry - who wore leather jackets and combat boots, kept her hair in a pixie undercut, and once pegged him so hard he cried. Cara had also been a regional pool champion, and before she dumped Dennis for Louisa Perez from their child psych course she’d given him lessons every Friday night at the campus bar. Dennis doesn’t remember all of it, but he’s kept the trick shots fresh in his mind - they make him feel the way he expects Mac feels after shooting a Project Badass video, except Dennis’ pride is actually warranted.

 _Before you take the shot,_ Cara used to say, her breath hot on his neck as she stood behind him, keeping his stance still, _you have to visualise it. Think about the physics. Breathe in on the back swing, out on the forward hit. Let the magic happen._

Dennis thinks about it. He breathes in on his back swing. He breathes out on the forward hit.

“Coffee,” Dee yells out from the doorway, a cardboard cup holder balanced on one arm.

“Finally,” Charlie shouts, scrambling in her direction - just as Dennis taps the cue ball with a satisfying click, and just as every other ball on the felt slides smoothly home, slipping down into the pool table pockets.

A perfect cluster shot: except Charlie’s attention is gone, and he never had Dee’s to begin with. Usually this is the point where Dennis would prickle with annoyance at being overshadowed, but Mac’s still staring at him, his dark eyes fixed on Dennis’, teeth sunk slightly into his lower lip. The adrenaline of it is fucking exhilarating.

Dennis has never been able to decide if he loves or despises moments like this. The ones where both of them circle each other, edging closer and closer to the unspoken line. He has dreams, sometimes, about him and Mac and that goddamn Chicago song, and all the things he could have done with ten more seconds.

“Mac, they didn’t have any whip,” Dee says, walking over, “but they gave me a biscuit-thing on the house when I complained about it, so don’t bitch at me.”

Mac’s expression morphs into a scowl - just like that, the moment melts away into nothing. Dee holds out a coffee that Mac doesn’t take. He stares at it, wary eyed, as though Dee were offering him a spider or a used baby wipe.

“No whip?” he says, skeptically. “Dee, the fuck kind of café did you go to?”

“A normal café!” Dee protests, sounding exasperated. “A normal café for normal, grown adults, who don’t require whipped cream everything they drink!"

Mac opens his mouth, his expression suggesting he’s about to fight Dee on several, if not all of these points - but before he can the door to the back office slams open.

“Nine hundred and ninety two bucks!” Frank announces.

The room descends into silence.

“Holy shit,” Dee breathes out.

“Tomorrow,” Frank says triumphantly, “we are breaking a thousand. One way or another."

Mac laughs; bewildered and incredulous. Dee and Charlie just stand there, wordless and dumbfounded, until Charlie dives behind the bar, emerging again half a second later with a wide, giddy grin and the tequila they keep behind the soda gun.

“Nine hundred and ninety two bucks,” Mac says, amazed. “And we haven’t even opened the bar yet.”

Dennis’ stomach twists.

“Beginner’s luck,” he says dismissively, examining his fingernails. “We’ll be running ourselves into the ground in no time, Mac, don’t you worry about that.”

Dee snorts.

“Oh, I know what this is,” she says, wagging a finger at him. “You’re bitter.”

Dennis rolls his eyes, long-sufferingly.

“Don’t be _ridiculous_ -“

“You are! You’re bitter! Because you didn’t think a scheme without you bossing everyone around would work, and we’ve already made nine hundred bucks on the first day.”

“Dee, shut up,” Dennis snaps.

God, why does she - why does she have to do this? Why does she always have to - his chest is getting hot and uncomfortable, there's something ugly prickling in his rib cage, something growing spines.

“Dennis, just admit it,” Dee says. She’s grinning, like she thinks she’s won. “You’re pissed because you wanted to be the one in charge.”

Dennis looks at the steaming coffee in her hand. A thought forces itself into his mind, unbidden: he could take it from her. He could throw it at her. Even as he thinks about it he feels himself physically wince; that’s too far, that’s too much, that would hurt. Dennis doesn’t want to hurt people - he doesn’t think he does.

The knives he was using to cut up fruit earlier lie abandoned on the counter. Dennis looks at them. He can’t stop looking at them. He feels sick to his stomach.

“Stop it!” he shouts, and he doesn’t know who he’s talking to. “Just - Christ, stop it already!”

“Fine,” Dee says, frowning as she backs away. “All right, Jesus, I was joking.”

Dennis pinches the bridge of his nose.

“I’m very tired,” he grits out. “I am very tired, because I just spent eight hours making small talk and mixing an unholy number of cocktails, and now I have to help clean up this shithole and do it all over again - so please excuse me if I’m not in the mood to listen to your _incessant_ goddamn jabbering, all right?”

His voice, he notices belatedly, has slipped into a snarl by the end of his tirade. A strained silence falls over the bar.

“You okay, dude?” Charlie says, cautiously. “Kinda got a… serial killer sort of look going on, there.”

Dennis closes his eyes. He breathes in, deep and slow - then he exhales and says, irritably, “Let’s just get this shit cleared up.”

 

* * *

 

The catalyst comes with both a bang and a whimper, and it involves Dennis falling off the step-stool they use to reach the top shelves behind the bar with a bottle of dry vermouth in his left hand.

“Was that a rat?” Charlie asks worriedly, poking his head out the bathroom door. “Can someone please tell me if that was a rat, ‘cause if they’re in the vents again I’ve gotta go and kill myself real quick.”

“It wasn’t a rat, moron,” Dennis groans from the floor. “I fell off the goddamn foot-stool.”

“Oh, okay,” Charlie says, sounding relieved. “Cool.”

The bathroom door slams shut again.

“Charlie, don’t - goddamnit -” Dennis mutters, struggling to his feet. His ankles can both take his weight, which is good, but the cracked vermouth bottle is leaking steadily onto the floor, which isn’t.

“Holy shit, Frank’s vermouth,” Dee’s voice says. Dennis can’t see her, but he can hear the familiar sound of the door to the alley clicking shut, the approaching panicked tread of her shoes. “Dennis, holy _shit_ , that’s Frank’s vermouth -"

“I know it’s Frank’s vermouth,” Dennis snaps, “I am intimately aware of the fact that it’s Frank’s vermouth, it smacked me on the head ten seconds ago.”

Dee reaches him. She frowns, and looks from Dennis to the vermouth to the footstool, and then back again.

“Don’t just stare, Dee, for chrissakes,” Dennis hisses. “Go get some towels or something -”

“You’re not pulling that not eating shtick again, are you?” Dee says.

Every nerve in Dennis’ body demands that he freeze. He doesn’t, because he has too much control for that, but it’s a close thing.

“What not eating thing?”

Dee rolls her eyes.

“The bitching,” she says slowly, like she’s talking to a five year old. “The complaining. The fainting and falling off stuff like some sort of 18th century bitch whose corset’s too tight. You picked a really inconvenient time for it, not gonna lie to you.”

She’s just needling, Dennis assures himself. She’s pissed over earlier and she’s just needling, trying to get a rise. Ignore it.

“Maybe you should try it sometime,” he finds himself saying instead. “God knows you’d benefit.”

“ _Excuse me?_ ”

“Dee, you are getting more hideous by the second,” Dennis tells her - and the words are coming from somewhere, they have to be, but it doesn’t feel like they’re coming from him. “You really think you’re gonna hold down a partner, looking like that? You’re gonna be dumped like trash at the goddamn wayside by the end of the month, I guarantee it, because nobody, _nobody_ , in their right minds, not even the fucking Waitress, would ever want to be with someone who -”

“Okay,” Mac’s voice says from behind him, “we’re done. Let’s go.”

Dennis whirls around.

“What do you mean, we’re done?“ he says, sneering. “We’re nowhere near done, I’m in the middle of -“

A verbal dressing down the likes of which this bar has never seen, he finishes mentally. Mac cuts him off before he can get to this good part.  
  
“Dennis, we’re _done_ ,” he repeats - he looks kind of furious, which doesn’t make any sense at all, and then Dennis catches sight of Dee’s face - pale, drawn, and shocked, and his stomach drops like a plane going down.

He stares at her.

“Get out,” Dee snaps.

“Dee,” Mac starts, but Dee cuts him off.

“Just get out,” she says, sounding pissed and exhausted all at once. “Get him out of here before I sock him around the face again.”

One of Mac’s hands closes around his wrist, and Dennis’ thoughts switch effortlessly to static.

He doesn’t remember leaving the bar. He doesn’t remember the drive home. Dennis doesn’t remember a single goddamn thing: it’s like the part of him that’s supposed to register these things has dissolved, has quietly shut down.

He’s yelling at Dee by the counter - he’s sat on a chair at the kitchen table. From one to the other with a strange haze sitting in-between. Maybe this is how magicians feel when they split themselves in two, or maybe it isn’t, because at least magicians understand the science behind the tricks. The only thing Dennis knows with any certainty is that he used to be in one space, and now he’s in another.

He’s going to slip down through the cracks for good, someday. He can feel it. He’ll lose his temper and time will split like an overripe peach and just like that, Dennis will be gone, nothing left to hold him down or tether him to this plane of reality.

“Okay,” Mac says, shutting the fridge door. “We have apples-comma-whole, or apples-comma-sauce. Take your pick, dude.”

Dennis clenches his fists under the table tight enough that his nails prick into his palms. He doesn’t say a thing.

“I’m gonna go with whole,” Mac says. He doesn’t acknowledge Dennis’ silence. Dennis doesn’t know if he’s grateful or if it pisses him off even more. “Applesauce has been open a while. Shit gets nasty when it’s rancid.”  
  
Everyone leaves. That’s not dramatics, that’s just the truth: everyone leaves, eventually, by death or by choice or because Dennis makes them. Dennis, more than anything else, wants Mac to leave. He wants to push and pull at him until he snaps back, until stupid, pathetic, follows-like-a-dog Mac storms out the door and leaves him alone. He wants to leave Dennis anyway. At the very least, Dennis is going to have control over when and how that happens.  
  
“Son of a bitch,” Mac mutters. He sucks the tip of his index finger into his mouth. He’s sat down at the kitchen table now - there’s a half-peeled apple rolling across it, eventually stumbling to a halt a few inches away from the edge. Mac sucks his fingertip into his _mouth_ , and Dennis catches the slightest flicker of pink tongue soothing the nick on his skin, watches the delicate sweep of his eyelashes over his cheeks.  
  
“Den?”  
  
Dennis swallows. His throat clicks.  
  
“What?” he snaps.  
  
“Get me a band-aid?”  
  
“For that?” Dennis says, letting disbelief colour his voice - and this, at least, is easy and familiar enough to sink into. “Christ, Mac, you think a papercut’s gonna make you bleed out or what?”  
  
“There are toxins everywhere, bro,” Mac protests. “All it takes is one uncovered battle wound and I could be-“  
  
“For the love of god,” Dennis mutters irritably, and stalks over to the drawer where they keep the first-aid kit. Or, more accurately, the drawer where they keep the tired remains of a first-aid kit Dennis bought back in ‘05, plus some vicodin (now three years expired), plus a tube of antiseptic stolen from Dee’s bathroom, plus a bag of coke bottle gummies. He shoves the vicodin and the coke bottles aside, rummaging around in the drawer’s musty depths until he finds a single, battered band-aid.  
  
“Here,” he says, tossing it onto the table in front of Mac.  
  
“Can you open it?”  
  
Dennis shuts his eyes. He debates, briefly, the pros and cons of punching through the drywall.  
  
“You’re so incompetent that opening a band-aid is beyond you now?” he snaps, and Mac has the gall to flinch, to give him a look that says he’s about to tell Dennis he doesn’t want a fight - which, for the record, Dennis doesn’t either, but he needs to get out of this fucking room before he implodes.  
  
“It’s tough to do one handed is all,” Mac says, quietly. He ducks his head and looks down at the tabletop, and Dennis’ brain takes that moment to notice that he hasn’t gelled his hair after his shower; it’s flopping down over his forehead and falling in front of his eyes. Dennis’ fingers twitch, momentarily.  
  
He needs to be anywhere else but here. He needs to stop thinking about Mac, and Mac touching him, and all the other thoughts in between.  
  
“Whatever,” Dennis mutters. He walks over to sit in the chair closest to Mac’s and reaches for the band-aid, picking it back up and using his thumbnail to neatly slit the thin paper cover in two. Mac, for all his confidence and bluster about threat levels and ocular pat-downs, lets Dennis take his hand the second he reaches for it, and Dennis tries not to think too much about that. He focuses instead on fitting the dressing just right - making sure it covers Mac’s fingertip completely and that the little gauze pad is in the right place. He doesn’t think about the way Mac’s hands could easily cover his; how they’re wider, larger, with softer palms even though Dennis knows for a fact that he‘s never touched moisturiser in his life. He swallows thickly, and he doesn’t think about the smell of Mac’s cologne, or the sound of his breathing, or the fact that he can feel Mac looking at him while his fingers smooth down the band-aid’s edges. He doesn’t think about a single fucking thing.  
  
If he can get through the next five minutes, he can bail and say he‘s taking a shower. Five minutes, and then he can wash the prickling burn of Mac’s gaze off his skin and shove this whole situation back into its box and keep it hidden from sight, where it belongs. He’s tired, it’s been a rough day - he wouldn’t be surprised if he wakes up tomorrow and all this turns out to have been a fever dream.  
  
“Dennis,” Mac says quietly. His brow’s furrowed a little. Dennis wants to smooth the lines out with his fingers.

He snatches his hand away from Mac’s as if he’d brushed a live wire.

“I’m going out,” he announces as he scrambles to his feet, aiming for authoritative but knowing the second the words leave his mouth he’s coming off as haughty. Christ, what’s wrong with him? Is this some kind of weird symbiosis; is Mac somehow emitting stupidity? It has to be that. It’s like when you drive into a valley and the radio turns to static. Mac’s having an adverse effect on his abilities, his talent for control.  
  
Mac’s expression, predictably, has started to darken.  
  
Good.  
  
“Dennis,” he warns. He gets to his feet, too, moving to stand directly in front of the door and crossing his arms. Dennis feels like something feral as he sneers at him, his grin all teeth. He moves forward to shove his way past Mac - but even as he tries, ready to shoulder him out of the way, Mac’s hands wrap around his wrists and hold them firmly in place where they are, slightly raised and outstretched.

They’re face to face, suddenly: Dennis caught in Mac’s grip and Mac holding onto him as though he expects Dennis to slip away like water.

“Let go of me,” Dennis says, low and furious. He struggles against Mac’s hold but Mac has the advantage of bulk and not skipping meals every day, and his hands stay exactly where they are.

“Say something, then!” Mac snarls, his temper finally unravelling the way Dennis has been waiting for. “Just talk to me, for once in your goddamn life, you can do whatever bullshit you want afterwards.”

Dennis makes a sound in his throat, half-wild, angry, desperate - he tries to pull himself free again, his breathing getting rougher and sharper, and Mac’s expression shifts, just a little, concern edging over exasperation.  
  
“C'mon _,_ man _,”_ he says, pleading _. “_ One word.”  
  
He still hasn’t let go of Dennis’ wrists. His thumbs are rubbing slow circles over Dennis’ pulse.  
  
_Talk to me,_  like he’s in a position to demand that from Dennis - like either of them really understand what those words mean. They’ve been playing at friendship for the best part of two decades and they’ve never, Dennis is willing to admit, been very good at it, because what do you call it when two men live together, drink together, go to dinner together, insult and betray each other and return to each other again and again - but refuse to acknowledge the heaving, lovestruck monster in the room? What do you call it when your best friend moves in with you, tells you he loves you, tries to _kiss you,_ for chrissakes, and you never mention any of it - when the stability of your relationship relies solely on all the things you know not to talk about, rather than the things you do?  
  
Dennis wouldn’t expect anyone to call that friendship. That said, he also doesn’t expect anyone to understand him and Mac in the first place.  
  
“Dennis -“ Mac starts, frowning again, and Dennis can’t help it: he leans forward, wrists still caught in Mac’s grip, and kisses him on the mouth.  
  
Mac has been using his cherry lip balm. Dennis can taste it on his lower lip as he bites down, and Mac makes a soft, breathless kind of sound that sends a rush of giddy heat flooding straight through him. He bites again, harder, and this time Mac pulls back a little, blinking dazedly.  
  
“That hurts,” he says, more statement than protest. Dennis rolls his eyes.  
  
“You stole my chapstick,” he tells Mac. “Take shit, get bit.”  
  
They’re still so close. Dennis tilts his head and leans in again, kisses him softer. Mac relaxes a little, tension seeping away from his body and leaving him a heavy weight pressed close against Dennis’ chest.  
  
It feels good, Dennis thinks hazily, so incredibly good, like he’s needed this all goddamn day, and Mac’s hands have let go of his wrists to stroke over his arms, tugging him in even closer until the remaining space between them is enveloped. He understands, now, why Mac looks the way he does before he kisses him.  
  
“Dennis,” Mac murmurs against his mouth. “Den.”  
  
He’s pulling back, like he’s got something to say. Dennis huffs, annoyed, and bites at his lip again. Mac hardly ever says anything worth listening to - especially considering all the things they could be doing right now that are far, far more appealing than talking.  
  
“Dennis,” Mac says again. He pulls away properly, and something in Dennis’ chest twinges at the distance.  
  
“Christ, what is it?” Dennis snaps.  
  
Mac takes a deep breath.  
  
“How do you feel?” he says carefully, like he’s quoting a pamphlet or reading from a book.  
  
Dennis scrunches up his nose. His brow furrows.  
  
“How do I feel?” he says, slowly.  
  
“I - well, yeah,” Mac says - apparently gathering steam now that Dennis has made the mistake of engaging with him. “You know, are you, like. Happy. Or sad, or confused, or whatever.”  
  
“What are you doing?” Dennis says. “Where are you going with this?”  
  
Mac closes his eyes.  
  
“Just - look, give me an answer. Please.”  
  
He’s being stubborn, but Dennis knows an antidote for that. He lifts his hands from where they’re curled on Mac’s shirt and cups Mac’s face in his palms, stroking his thumbs over the faint freckles on his cheekbones. He ducks his head, brushing their noses together, Mac’s breath hot on his skin.  
  
He has him: or he thinks he does, until Mac shakes his head, pulling away again.  
  
“Nope. No. Talk first.”  
  
Dennis groans.  
  
“Seriously?”  
  
“Yes,” Mac insists. He crosses his arms again. It makes Dennis feel a little alone, going from having Mac’s touch to not having anything at all in the space of a minute. He pinches the bridge of his nose.  
  
“I’m pissed with you,” he says flatly. “There. That’s a feeling.”  
  
“And?”  
  
“And? What do you mean, and, I already answered the goddamned question -“  
  
“Why’re you pissed with me?”  
  
“Because you won’t let me kiss you!” Dennis snaps. “And I - I felt better, when we were - when that was happening.”  
  
“Kissing me makes you happy?” Mac says, practically cooing. Dennis rolls his eyes.  
  
“Not if you’re going to act like a dick about it.”  
  
“That’s sweet as shit, dude,” Mac says. He’s grinning now, the dimples at the corners of his mouth showing. His eyes are warm and soft.  
  
“Don’t call me dude when we’re kissing,” Dennis mutters. Mac just huffs out a laugh and cups the back of Dennis’ head in one hand, strokes his hip with the other, kisses him and licks at his bottom lip lazy and slow. He tastes faintly of beer and cherries.  
  
They are teetering on the edge of something. Dennis could fall from a precipice he’s been clinging to for a very long time and it would be simpler and easier than taking a breath - but even as he thinks about it his notebook burns a hole in his jacket pocket. He needs to do this right. Without the perfect foundation it could all fall apart.  
  
Dennis imagines it: breaking this thing between him and Mac the way he’s broken every other relationship he’s ever had. Bruises and bloody scratches covering Mac’s body as Mac looks at him, repulsed and disgusted; Mac punching him in the stomach, Mac kicking him in the teeth. Mac gets angry, too - he forgets that a lot of the time, since these days it’s rarely directed at him. It should be, really. Dennis deserves it. Maybe then Mac would leave for good and Dennis would rot here, alone in this room, from the inside out.  
  
“Mac?”  
  
Mac hums, like he’s letting Dennis know he’s listening. Pressed up against him like this, Dennis can feel the way his chest vibrates a little - there’s barely an inch of them that isn’t touching but if he doesn’t get closer to Mac right now, right this second, he’s going to split in two.  
  
He breathes in with a shudder. He’s shaking, he realises, and Mac seems to notice because he curls his fingers into Dennis’ hair and guides Dennis’ head into the crook of his neck, his other hand rubbing slow circles at the small of his back. Dennis‘ fingers claw at the front of Mac’s shirt. His cheeks feel hot and wet.  
  
“Hey,” Mac says, “hey, what’s-“  
  
“I think I could kill someone,” Dennis whispers into the hollow of Mac's neck. It comes out choked. “Or just - or hurt someone, there’s something wrong with me, I get this feeling in my hands -“  
  
“You told me,” Mac says quietly. He’s still carding his fingers through Dennis’ hair. “You told me, dude. That night we couldn’t get a table at Guigino’s. You told me in the cab before you fell asleep.”  
  
Dennis stiffens.  
  
“You’re still here,” he says. It comes out like an accusation.  
  
The arms around him tighten.  
  
“Yeah,” Mac says. He doesn’t say anything else.

Mac holds him for a long time: or, at the very least, it feels like a long time. There’s a chance it could’ve only been a minute. He holds him long enough that Dennis has time to swallow down the heaviness in his throat and blink up at the ceiling until his eyes stop burning: he holds him long enough that when Dennis eventually clears his throat Mac’s arms drop away instantly, and his gaze does too.

“Dinner,” Mac says, quiet and slightly stiff, reaching for the fruit peeler. It’s not a question.

They end up next to each other on the couch, side by side. Dennis eats his apple (peeled, sliced into eighths, then quartered) out of a cereal bowl and Mac finishes the last half of an ice cream tub he dug out of Dee’s barren wasteland of a freezer, and they leave the dirty dishes on the coffee table as gifts to their future selves. It’s too hot and too late for a movie, so instead they watch some bullshit home improvement show with the volume on low.

“My head hurts,” Dennis mutters.

“You got your skull smacked by a bottle of vermouth,” Mac says, not looking away from the tv screen. “I’d be worried if you didn’t have a headache, dude.”

One of his hands migrates up into Dennis’ hair, begins to stroke. Dennis makes a soft, contented noise.

Mac wants to ask about the incident with Dee. Dennis can tell by the slight tension in his shoulders, the restless patterns his fingers make as they card through Dennis’ curls. Dennis is grateful that he doesn’t, because it saves him the trouble and embarrassment of admitting the truth: he doesn’t know why he did it. He only knows that he did, and he wishes that he hadn’t.

The cushions rustle as he turns his head and noses at the fabric of Mac’s shirt.

“Wake me when it gets too late,” Dennis mutters, slightly muffled. Mac doesn’t reply but he doesn’t stop stroking Dennis’ hair either, and it’s easy, so easy, to let his eyes slip shut.

 

* * *

 

  
The apartment is quiet and dark when Dennis stirs, blinking slowly, as someone taps him on the nose.  
  
“Hey,” Mac whispers. “C’mon.”  
  
He tugs on Dennis’ shoulder to coax him upright - Dennis uncurls reluctantly from his position on the couch, stretching out and looking up at Mac’s shadowed features, illuminated faintly by moonlight coming in through the window.  
  
“Time is it?” he mutters. His throat feels scratchy and cotton-filled.  
  
“Just gone twelve,” Mac’s shadow says. “Go brush your teeth, dude.”  
  
Dennis shakes his head, trying to sit down again - Mac’s grip on him tightens as he keeps him upright.  
  
“Fine,” Dennis mutters.  
  
The bathroom feels hollow and subterranean. He doesn’t bother turning on the lights, just shuffles over to the sink and goes through the motions; brushing his teeth and reluctantly dragging a makeup wipe over his cheeks and under his eyes. The tiles are cool under his bare feet. He’s tired enough that he doesn’t try to stop himself from missing Mac’s warm hands on his skin.  
  
Mac’s still stood there in the living room waiting for him when he emerges. He jerks his head towards Dee’s bedroom, his fingers curling loosely around Dennis’ wrist.

“C’mon,” he says, tugging him forward. Dennis frowns.

“That’s Dee’s room,” he says.

“Yeah,” says Mac, rolling his eyes. “ You see her around?”

“I don’t wanna sleep on Dee’s sheets,” Dennis insists, petulantly.

“So you’d rather keep suffering on the couch?”

There’s a beat of silence.

“Fine,” Dennis mutters, and he lets Mac drag him into the bedroom without any further fuss.

It feels a little strange, slipping into a bed after all this time - especially a bed that isn’t his. Dennis’ discomfort lasts for all of five seconds until he drags one of Dee’s pillows over and rests his head on it. Fuck, it’s _soft_. It’s soft and it smells like clean laundry detergent, as opposed to the grease-smoke-beer trifecta that haunts the couch cushions. Dennis nuzzles into it and wishes he could crawl inside.

“You good there, buddy?” Mac’s voice says. He sounds like he’s grinning.

“Shut up,” Dennis mumbles, his face half-mashed in the pillow. Mac snorts quietly, and then Dennis hears his footsteps pad away.

He reaches out blindly for the comforter, not lifting his head, and when his fingers find a corner of it he shawls it up over his shoulders, his body curled into the shape of a comma. Sleep doesn’t come for him but exhaustion does, seeping into his bones and settling there, heavy and warm.

Mac’s in the other room, probably. Maybe he’s asleep already. He’s been an easy sleeper for as long as Dennis has known him, and in Dennis’ opinion it’s his most enviable quality. He can count on one hand the number of times he’s caught Mac up in the night, and he can also count on one hand the number of times he’s managed to fall asleep with half as much ease as Mac does - sleep is something that Mac’s body just seems to do naturally, and something Dennis’ body sees as a last resort.

Mac is in the other room, sleeping soundly, and that’s all right. That’s fine. A sleepless night in a king-size bed with clean sheets is better than seven restless hours in a hammock that makes his back feel like it’s on fire.

The bedroom light flicks on. Dennis blinks, scowling, and squints at the doorway. Mac is stood there, his hair damp, his washed-soft riot shirt tugged on haphazardly, dumbass shamrock tattoo just visible above the line of his boxers. He’s clean-shaven and barefoot, and in this light he could almost pass for the Mac that Dennis knew back in college - the one who used to make the same two hour round trip every other weekend, South Philly to the bus station on Curtis Road - the one who bitched about the fees and weird travelling companions but kept doing it anyway.

“Hey,” he says. “Should’ve known you’d be the type to hog blankets, you asshole.”

Dennis wants to say, _you already know that I do_ , but this is the price they pay for intimacy. Every instance has to be isolated from the history behind it. You can bare your heart to someone, beating and whole, and it doesn’t have to matter so long as you both agree it’s a one time thing. They’ve had an awful lot of one time things, him and Mac.

He uncurls slightly from the cocoon he’s made around himself, letting a few scant inches of blanket fall back onto Mac’s side of the bed. He stares at Mac, Mac stares at him - Mac raises his eyebrows in disbelief, and Dennis just smirks.

“Dick,” Mac says. If Dennis were to shut his eyes, he'd almost sound fond.

The light flickers out again. Mac’s footsteps pad across the floor, closer and closer, and then the sheets rustle and the bed dips as a warm weight settles on the left hand side.

Mac stays very still for a moment, still as a goddamn choirboy at mass, and then Dennis grumbles, “come _here_ , for chrissakes,” because apparently he has to do everything himself, and worms his way closer until he feels the warm solidity of Mac’s chest against his back.

“You’re so fucking fussy,” Mac says. His breath is warm on Dennis’ neck.

“Says the guy who once plastic wrapped a couch,” Dennis mutters.

He yawns, and it turns into a laugh halfway when Mac says, sounding put-upon, “Charlie and _Frank’s_ couch, dude. Would you want to sit on that thing as-is? With all the piss and the shit and the body fluids?”

“Just saying,” Dennis says. “Takes one to know one.”

In the silence that follows, one of Mac’s hands moves to rest lightly on Dennis’ hip - faint, barely there, like he’s not sure if this is allowed. Dennis presses back against him and Mac’s hand settles a little firmer, his fingers tracing slow hypnotic circles over Dennis’ stomach. This close, he smells of Dee's laundry detergent and cheap peppermint shampoo. It’s strange combination. It’s a familiar one. Dennis thinks that if the rest of the world froze right now, he wouldn’t notice - or maybe he would, but he wouldn’t care.

“Mac,” Dennis mumbles, sleepily.  
  
“Mm?”  
  
“I didn’t mean it. The shit I said to Dee.”  
  
He hears the sheets rustle as Mac shifts. The hand on Dennis’ hip starts to stroke up and down, slowly.

When you’ve spent your whole life quietly honing your ability to lie, the desire to tell someone the truth is a very strange thing. It’s familiar and unfamiliar - a pair of shoes you’ve owned for a while but never worn. The edges are ill-fitting. Sometimes they chafe.

“Go to sleep, Den,” Mac tells him. His voice is soft, the way it always gets when he's tired. Dennis' heart flips unsteadily in his chest.

He knows when Mac drifts off by the way his breathing evens out. One of Mac’s calves nudges in between his legs, Mac’s arm stays slung over his hips. His fingers brush limply over Dennis’ skin as he dreams. Dennis extricates himself slowly, slipping out of bed and walking into the pitch dark living room - finding his way to the couch by memory and reaching into the pockets of the jacket strewn over the back. He tugs the notebook out and looks at it, his heart coiling and uncoiling with something he doesn’t know how to name.

It feels a lot like the way writing in Mac’s file feels: observational, careful, considered. Except Mac’s file contains paragraphs with titles like ‘obsessive-compulsive tendencies’, and ‘neglect based emotional dependency’ - but tonight, on thin paper with curling edges, Dennis only scrawls down two short bullet points and the date, before flipping the notepad shut and replacing it in the pocket of his jacket.

When he settles back under the blankets five minutes later, Mac begins to stir. He shifts to sit upright, blinking muzzily.

“S’the matter?” he says, turning to look at Dennis. Dennis leans forward and presses a brief, soft kiss to the curve of his mouth; tugs Mac’s arm back across his waist and pulling them both back down, settling again in the space next to him. Mac nuzzles sleepily into his hair, and Dennis feels the rasp of stubble against his forehead, a gentle pressure on his temple.

“Sleep,” Mac murmurs.

To his own surprise, Dennis does.

 

* * *

 

Morning greets Dennis eight hours later with a drool patch on his cheek and Mac’s arm sprawled out over his chest.

He lifts a hand up to his mouth, wrinkling his nose as he wipes his face clean, and then tries to sit upright - only to find himself pinned in place by the deadweight of Mac’s body half-covering his.

“Hey,” he mutters, turning around in the circle of Mac’s arms to shove at his chest. “Move.”

“Shu’ up,” Mac mumbles. He’s face-down in a pillow. Dennis flicks him on the back of his neck and Mac groans, lifting his head - he’s scowling, mouth tugged down into a pout and his hair sticking up at the back in one of the worst cowlicks Dennis has ever seen.

“The hell was that for?” he says, rubbing his eyes with the palm of his hands.

“Move,” Dennis repeats. “I want to shower.”

“Oh,” Mac says. He sounds abashed, tugging his arm back hurriedly. “Sorry.”

The urge to kiss him comes without warning, flooding in from somewhere Dennis can’t parse - but there’s bright daylight shifting through the blinds now, leaving nothing untouched, and he can’t. He can’t.

Dennis showers first; Mac makes coffee. Dennis curses after a bitch of a sneeze makes him drop his mascara wand in the sink, and hears a quiet snort of laughter.

“Fuck you,” he says, loud enough that his voice carries to the kitchen.

“Come drink your coffee before I do,” Mac calls back - which doesn’t sound like much a threat by itself, unless you're as well-acquainted as Dennis is with the sins Mac performs on home-brewed coffee.

“Don’t,” he warns, “come on, for god’s sake, do not -”

“The vanilla is going in, Dennis,” Mac says.

“Give a guy five seconds, christ,” Dennis growls, shoving his make-up bag back into the bathroom cabinet and doing up the buttons of his shirt as he walks hurriedly towards the kitchen - just in time to see Mac pour roughly half a bottle’s worth of syrup into Dennis’ mug.

“Too slow,” Mac says, utterly unapologetic. He raises his eyebrows at Dennis as he lifts the mug to his mouth and takes a sip. “Sorry, dude.”

“That's mine!” Dennis hisses. "Jesus, Mac, you asshole, that's my damn-"

“Was,” Mac corrects. “It _was_ yours, until you went and took for-goddamn-ever in the bathroom and cut into my shower time,” - and then Dennis, sore from chagrin and lack of caffeine, politely implies that Mac could cut the length of his showers in half if he just learnt how to use hair gel correctly and stopped spending 90% of his shower time jerking his dick, and the resultant argument blazes on merrily all the way out the door and until the end of their ten minute drive to Paddy’s.

“I use,” Mac says heatedly as they walk into the bar, “an entirely reasonable amount of gel, Dennis, my hair is very thick, it takes a lot to keep it down -”

“You use a hideous amount of gel,” Dennis retorts. “You use more gel than anyone else I know and you get it all over the goddamn mirror like it’s finger paint, it pisses the shit out of me.”

Dennis has another five or six points he’d like to make before Mac inevitably cuts him off, but they die away in his throat at the smell - thick, heavy, and cloying with rot - that smacks him roundly across the face.

“Oh, Jesus,” he mutters. He muffles a gag behind his hand. Behind him Mac makes an odd, wheezing noise, staggering backwards. Dennis turns his head and shoots him a questioning look - Mac shakes his head, starts to frown. _I know as much as you do._

There’s a loud thumping noise from behind the basement door. Half a second later, Dee and Charlie burst through it - the latter wearing his goddamn bubble boy suit, Dee looking very nauseous and very pale.

“Oh, Jesus,” Dennis says again, louder and exasperated.

“Why’d you do it, Charlie?” Dee snaps, stepping behind the bar and grabbing a bottle of water that she scrabbles to open one-handed. “Why’d you put it _there_ , of all goddamn places, and not -”

“Frank is the one who arranged the basement!” Charlie yelps, his voice slightly muffled behind the plastic visor. He tugs the helmet off, putting it on a nearby table, and then says, clearer, “look, if this ends up in arbitration, Frank should be the one who takes the fall, all right?”

“What is this?” Dennis says, dread seeping over him like ice water. “What have you done?”

“Dennis,” Dee asks him, her voice strained and shaking, “if you had an industrial sized freezer, and you also had a faulty piece of shit stove, would you put them next to each other and leave the stove on all night? Is that a choice you’d make?”

“You’re kidding me,” Mac says, slowly.

“She’s not,” Charlie says. “It’s - the meat’s just sorta disintegrated, man, it’s all over the floor -”

“ _Jesus_ ,” Dennis groans, for the third and most emphatic time that day.

“Does Frank know?” Mac asks. Charlie nods, grimly.

“On the phone with some guy right now. He’s trying to get someone in to clean it. Nobody’s biting, for some reason.”

“It’s a hot basement filled with rancid meat water in the middle of June,” Dennis snaps, “I can think of several reasons why nobody’s biting.”

“Well you better hope someone does, dude, 'cause until then Frank wants us cleaning it ourselves. He even made me bring me and my mom’s suits in, so we can do it in pairs.”

“You,” Dee says, carefully, “you should probably go first, Charlie, I mean - you’re all suited up already, right? No point wasting a good suit.”

Charlie wrinkles his nose, apparently mulling this over for a moment. Dennis crosses his fingers behind his back.

“Hook me up with a beer before I go back down,” Charlie says, sounding resigned - Dee grabs a Coors from behind the bar and attaches it to the helmet before passing the whole contraption over to Charlie.

“Good luck,” Mac tells him. Charlie takes a long, deep breath, and then tugs the helmet over his head and walks back down the basement stairs.

Dennis sighs.

“Mac, go get the straws. If we’re doing this, we’re doing it honourably.”

Mac clicks his fingers and nods.

“Smart,” he says. “I think I saw them in the back room, hold on."

He walks past Dennis and heads towards the office. Dennis begins to take infinitesimal, soundless steps back, his strides increasing in length once the door clicks shut behind Mac.

“Are you skiving?”

Dennis freezes. He looks up, his eyes meeting Dee’s across the bar.

“Are _you_ skiving?”

Dee squints at him.

“I’m absolutely skiving,” she tells him, like it’s something painfully obvious. “Yesterday was fucking exhausting, Dennis, I’m not doing that again. I wouldn’t do it again even if the basement wasn’t flooded with meat water.”

“Oh, thank god,” Dennis says, relieved. “Okay. We’re on the same page.”

“Found the straws!” Mac calls out from the office.

Dee downs the rest of her water in one go. The two of them turn tail: walking straight out the door.

 

* * *

 

Dee's bad taste is apparently never ending, since she tries to drag him back to the hipster shithole on 3rd. Dennis puts his foot down, literally and metaphorically, and stubbornly keeps walking until the familiar full windowed walls of Starbucks come into sight.

“What’s up with you, anyway?” he complains as they join the queue. “I thought you liked predictable mid-tier coffee chains, it’s one of the few things we’ve ever actually agreed on.”

“I do like them," Dee says, exasperated, "I just also like variety. Not everyone is satisfied with going to the same goddamn places over and over again.”

Dennis wrinkles his nose.

“I go to new places,” he protests. “I go to lots of new places. I’m a tastemaker.”

“Where’re you going for monthly dinner this month?” Dee asks, eyebrows raised.

“Guigino’s,” Dennis says automatically. Then, realising the trap he’s walked into: “oh, for fuck’s - that’s _different_ -”

“Uh huh,” Dee says, disinterested, bending down to examine the pastry counter. “Sure. Cinnamon roll or raisin toast?”

“Neither,” Dennis mutters. Dee shoots him a look that says he’s going to choose one or risk being kicked in the balls in public, and he adds, hastily, “cinnamon, christ, stop staring at me like that.”

They settle at a table by the window that overlooks the street. Dennis picks reluctantly at the cinnamon roll's tacky glaze while Dee settles in her chair, taking a sip of her latte.

“So," she starts, setting her coffee down on the table.

“Absolutely not,” Dennis snaps. “We’re not talking about him. I don’t want to talk about him.”

“I was going to ask if you’d heard about the movie they’re filming in Penn Square, actually,” Dee says, mildly, “but you know what, if you’ve got some new twisted feelings about Mac you need to process, go right ahead. Those are always fun.”

Dennis perks up, lifting his head.

“Someone’s filming a movie in Penn Square?”

Dee waves a dismissive hand

“Yeah, some Michael Bay thing,” she says. “Anyway. Keep talking.”

“There’s a _Michael Bay_ _movie_ being filmed in Penn Square?”

“Dennis,” Dee says - exasperated, tired, a little sharp - and Dennis ignores her in favour of ducking his head and picking at his cinnamon roll, ripping it into smaller and smaller pieces.

“I have a question,” Dennis says after a moment, not looking up from the table.

“All right,” Dee replies, sounding cautious. “Shoot.”

“If you’re a lesbian now, how does that - you’ve slept with a tonne of guys, Dee. Lesbians don’t sleep with guys. That’s the whole point. How does that work?”

There’s a long silence. Dennis risks a glance at Dee, expecting to see her glaring furiously, or getting ready for a tirade - but she’s doing neither, just sat back in her chair looking at him, chewing on a mouthful of croissant with a weirdly pensive expression. Dennis looks back down at the scuffed tabletop.

“First of all,” Dee says, eventually, “that was phrased terribly. You're an asshole. Second - remember how we all knew Mac was gay? Like, for years?”

Dennis frowns.

“What does that have to do with -”

“Mac’s into dudes, and he’s been with chicks,” Dee says bluntly. “I’m into girls, I’ve been with guys. Doesn’t matter. We figured it out in the end.”

Dee says it so matter-of-fact, so simple, like Dennis is the one being weird about it all. He’s still a little skeptical, if he’s being honest; just look at him, for example. Dennis has been sleeping with women since he was fourteen. He has a literal system to make the whole thing as streamlined as possible. A guy like Dennis couldn’t be gay even if he wanted to, the evidence to the contrary is too strong.

Dee’s still watching him when he looks up, and there’s an expression on her face that Dennis can’t parse - it isn’t sympathy and it isn’t understanding, but isn’t _not_ those things, either.

Dennis clears his throat and picks up his coffee.

“How’s that going?” he asks, stiffly. “You and - what’s her name. The Waitress.”

“Dennis,” says Dee, sounding mildly impressed and slightly concerned. "Are you giving a shit about my life? Unprompted?”

“I’m not giving a shit,” Dennis insists, irritably. "Please do not misconstrue this as me giving a shit, I’m filling the silence to make this whole thing less awkward -”

“It’s good,” Dee says. Her voice is a little quieter than usual. “It’s - I, y’know. I like her.”

“Liking someone tends to be a prerequisite of dating them,” Dennis points out. "That's hardly special, Dee."

Dee scowls. She throws the end of her croissant at him and it lands squarely in the last dregs of Dennis’ coffee, which splash onto his shirt.

“Oh, you _bitch_ ,” Dennis snarls, grabbing a wad of napkins off the table and patting furiously at the brown stain soaking into his button-up - one of his blue button-ups, no less, the kind he bought five of three years ago because the colour was a perfect match for his eyes and has been taking careful care of ever since.

“You ruined my moment!” Dee hisses back. “I was being genuine with you, and you threw that back in my face!”

Calmly, Dennis picks up the plate of cinnamon roll pieces. He readies it in his hand, as if testing the weight.

“Don’t you dare,” Dee says, lowly.

Dennis pulls his arm back.

“Excuse me - sir? Ma’am?”

Dennis turns his head, scowling, the cinnamon roll plate still held aloft, to face the stranger standing next to their table.

“We’re kind of in the middle of something here, guy,” Dee says, waving him off.  “Can you give us a minute, please, before -”

“You can’t throw food at each other,” the waiter says, in a tired monotone. “If you want to do that, you’re going to need to do it outside."

“Are you kicking us out?” says Dennis, incredulously.

The waiter sighs.

“I’m politely asking you and your friend to leave.”

“Unbelievable,” Dennis mutters. “Dee, looks like we’re going to that hipster place of yours after all. You can pay, since you just ruined my shirt.”

“Nope,” Dee tells him crisply, getting to her feet. “No. No way. Annie’s shift ends in twenty minutes and I’ve reached my daily quota for interacting with you. You’re on your own, dick.”

“Oh, c’mon,” Dennis protests - but Dee’s already out the door, her middle finger raised behind her as a parting gift. Dennis rolls his eyes.

He ends up wandering the city for a while, deciding it would be safest to avoid Paddy’s altogether. He keeps his hands tucked in his pockets and studies, quietly, the people moving past, trying to decide who they are - tourists, locals, bureaucrats, college students, the ones who are something in-between. The air smells of car exhaust and rain and the sun shines down, faint but noticeable, through the clouds. As he’s heading around a corner his eyes catch on a bright spread of colour in a shop window, and he turns his head and sees -

Mugs. A dizzying array of them, all incredibly ugly, all priced for a dollar fifty. There’s one on the far left side that looks oddly familiar and when Dennis leans in closer he sees why: the Batman emblem has been printed haphazardly on the front, and above it, in the shitty font ubiquitous to mass-produced gag gifts, are the words, ‘World’s Best Bitch’.

Dennis knows two things. The first is that he hates the damn thing on sight, and the second is that if Mac could see it he’d buy it on the spot, no questions asked, and add it to the menagerie of tacky knock-off mugs he’s been cultivating since the 90’s.

Dennis sighs. He walks in. Five minutes later he walks out again, a brown paper bag tucked under one arm. If, several hours later, when the apartment is empty except for himself, he tucks the contents away into a waiting space on a shelf in Dee's kitchen, that’s nobody’s business except his own.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh geez, i am so sorry about that whole 'i'm going to update on time' thing. this chapter just wouldn't stop and i couldn't find a decent way to cut it off, and somehow it turned into the 11k monstrosity you see before you. to everyone who's commented, left kudos, or liked the fic so far - _thank you_. you are the reason this section got finished and didn't spend the rest of eternity languishing in my google docs. hopefully the length will make up for the lateness, but if it doesn't feel free to send me a prompt or two on [tumblr!](https://azirapha1e.tumblr.com)
> 
> (a disclaimer: i know nothing about pool. i know nothing about pool tables. the depictions of those things in this chapter are likely highly inaccurate and were based solely on me searching 'cool pool table tricks' on youtube and picking the ones that looked pretty. if you do know things about pool and pool tables, i apologise - please lmk if there's anything in that scene that's especially terrible x)


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> cws for non-graphic self harm, internalised homophobia, disordered eating, suicidal ideation, violent intrusive thoughts, and dennis 'bastard man' reynolds.

The best thing about cocktails, Dennis muses fuzzily, is that it’s like getting drunk off fruit juice. The worst thing about cocktails is also, arguably, that it’s like getting drunk off fruit juice. You don’t notice how hard they’re hitting until you’re somewhere between five and seven drinks in and slumped so far down in your seat that your ass is practically on the floor.  
  
“The last time I did this,” he informs the bartender, “I did vodka orange. This time we’re doing vodka cranberry. Because I am a bitch with taste.”  
  
“Okay?”  
  
“S’not,” Dennis says, gloomy and maudlin. “Nothing is. Why’d you think I’m drinking?”  
  
The guy across the bar isn’t Mac, which automatically makes him less attractive, but that doesn’t mean he’s awful to look at. He has nice eyes and his hair looks pretty soft, and while he doesn’t have Mac’s lips Dennis doubts that there’s anyone in the world who has lips like Mac’s, so it’s not fair to compare the two.  
  
“Thanks,” the guy says. “I guess?”  
  
“I wasn’t talking to you!” Dennis snaps.  
  
The bartender sighs. Dennis catches the beginning of an eye-roll as he turns away to serve another patron, leaving Dennis alone in his own corner of the bar with the dregs of his vodka cranberry for company.  
  
“Idiot,” Dennis mutters, tracing clumsy patterns in the condensation on his glass.  
  
You know who else is an idiot? Mac. Mac is an idiot - Dennis goes out of his goddamn comfort zone, Dennis tries to make him _happy_ , and all Mac does is come home, furious and dripping wet and smelling like a sewer pipe, and yell at him for leaving Paddy’s that morning. He hadn’t even noticed the mug, which had made Dennis feel stupid and slightly ashamed and like he never should’ve bought the damn thing in the first place.  
  
It’s been a week now, since the basement incident. A week since Mac chewed him out over it. Just over a week since Mac last touched him.

He’d come home late again earlier in the evening: been at the gym, apparently, but his hair had been dry and his skin hadn’t been flushed, so that was clearly a crock of shit to get Dennis off his back. And then Dennis had said, in the tone that usually guarantees Mac’s attention, _I’m going for a drive,_ and Mac hadn’t even looked at him when he‘d snapped back, _Dennis, I don’t give a shit._  
  
So Dennis had gone. Out the door and out the apartment complex and into his car outside, and he’d pinched his wrists and his thighs as hard as he could to stop himself from shaking, from starting the engine and driving into the Schuylkill. And then he’d ended up here.  
  
“I don’t wanna be here, y’know?” he continues, slouching as he picks at a scab on his fingers. “I want - I wanted things to be good. With him.”  
  
The bartender is at the other end of the bar now, pouring out a beer from the tap. Dennis’ skin itches uncomfortably with the knowledge that he’s being purposefully ignored.  
  
Maybe he should throw his glass and smash it; maybe he should talk his way into getting punched by someone. Maybe he should walk to the twenty four hour pharmacy down the street and buy a blister pack of something and take it all in one go. Maybe he should sit here until the rude but almost pretty bartender kicks him out in the early hours.  
  
A fight sounds satisfying. Dennis turns around in his seat, hunting for someone who looks strong enough to hit him and like they’d have the guts to do it, when his phone screen lights up on the countertop of the bar.  
  
Ten missed texts, ten missed calls, two for every hour he’s been gone. An eleventh call incoming.  
  
Dennis downs the last of his drink in one, wincing a little at the burn and the chill, and picks up.  
  
“I’m not talking to you,” he announces, spiteful and slightly slurred.  
  
“Yeah, whatever,” Dee’s voice says. Dennis frowns.  
  
“Dee?”  
  
“Yes, Dee, dickweed - Jesus Christ, do you not have caller id?”  
  
“Of course I have caller id,” Dennis snaps, irritated, “everyone has caller id, I just wasn’t looking at it for dramatic effect, because I thought you were Mac, and I am pissed at Mac.”  
  
An exasperated sigh crackles down the phone-line.  
  
“Where are you?”  
  
Dennis downs the rest of his drink of one.  
  
“That is,” he says, enunciating carefully, “none of your business, Deandra.”  
  
Dee sighs again. Dennis hears the faint sounds of a keyboard being tapped.  
  
“Oceana or Wild Lime?”  
  
Dennis freezes.  
  
“What?”  
  
“Which one?” Dee says impatiently. “Keep up, dick, you only get this insufferable when you’re drinking cocktails and those are the two cocktail bars closest to my apartment. Which one is it?”  
  
There’s a beat of mutinous silence.  
  
“Oceana,” Dennis mutters.  
  
“I’ll be there in fifteen,” Dee says.  
  
“‘M not leavin’,” Dennis protests. “I’m only seven drinks in. I can’t leave seven drinks in. A man such as myself can’t brown out on seven drinks.”  
  
“Listen, try not to punch anyone,” Dee says, as though he hadn’t spoken at all. “Or do, I don’t care, just don’t get arrested. I’m not bailing you out.”  
  
“Bitch,” Dennis says, but the only person who hears him is the goddamn bartender, because the phone line is already dead.  
  
He likes to think it’s impressive, really - the way it only takes him two minutes to down a shot of something tart and blue that he snags from a nearby table, ignoring the indignant shouts he leaves behind him as he saunters over to the crowd gathered around a dart board. He estimates he’s somewhere around the four minute mark when he focuses in on the man who looks drunkest and loudest, and says, lazily, “I saw you cheat that last round, man.”  
  
The guy freezes, a dart lifted halfway up, his hand still in the air. He turns to face Dennis.  
  
“Are you talking to me?”  
  
“I said,” Dennis repeats, stepping closer, “I saw you cheat. From the bar.”  
  
“Who the _hell_ do you think -” his mark says, setting the dart down and stepping forward to jab a finger against Dennis’ chest, and a woman nearby lays a hand on his arm, shaking her head as she tugs him back.  
  
“This your wife?” Dennis asks, eyebrows raised. He looks her up and down; makes a show of it. Whistles lowly, just to complete the performance.  
  
“Nice,” he drawls. “Not my type, though. Too much bone, not enough tits.”  
  
The first punch hits him like a benediction, smacking into his jaw with all the force of a wave crashing up against a cliff’s edge. The second one hits in the exact same spot and hurts like a bitch. His cheek throbs hotly and there’s blood pooling in his mouth: he feels like something terrible. He feels more present in his body than he has all week.  
  
“Can still do better than you, though,” he says, slightly slurred, grinning as he wipes his mouth on his sleeve - the guy’s face darkens, and the fist that slams into his stomach comes without warning and makes him stumble backwards, all the air in his lungs suddenly gone -  
  
“Jesus Christ,” Dee’s voice says, a strangled cross of frantic and annoyed. “Goddamnit - no, stop it, leave him, I’ll take him -”  
  
Dennis tries ineffectually to push her away when her fingers latch firmly onto his shirt collar, but his centre of gravity is reeling somewhere in the region of the floor and all he manages to do is lose his balance. Dee swears under her breath, propping him up against her shoulder and hurriedly dragging him over towards the exit.  
  
“Hey!” the bartender calls out, “you haven’t paid-”  
  
“Suck my dick,” Dee snaps back. “You shouldn’t be serving people this drunk in the first place, I’m not paying for my brother’s alcohol poisoning.”  
  
And then they’re out in the darkened street, the strange flavour of night air filling Dennis’ lungs as he takes ragged little breaths, trying to avoid making the burning in his chest any worse.  
  
“You asshole!” Dee snaps, tugging him towards her car and looking nervously back at the bar. “You absolute _asshole_ , I cannot believe - give me your keys, I’m driving.”  
  
“Stop shrieking,” Dennis mumbles, letting himself be shoved unceremoniously into the passenger seat.  
  
“Two rules, Dennis! Don’t punch anyone and don’t get arrested, and you, what, decide to try breaking both at once? In ten minutes?”  
  
“That about sums it up,” Dennis says, closing his eyes and wincing as the car jolts into movement.  
  
There’s a brief silence. The wheels skim over a pothole and Dennis judders slightly in his seat; he tilts his head up to the ceiling and swallows slowly until his stomach settles.  
  
“Is Mac home?”  
  
Dee pulls to a stop at a red light. She glances over at him, her profile illuminated by a streetlamp behind the driver’s window and her hair faintly haloed - and maybe it’s the light, maybe it’s how drunk he is, but her expression looks weirdly soft.  
  
“Dennis -”  
  
“That’s a no,” Dennis says. He huffs out a bitter laugh. “All right.”  
  
He knows he sounds desperate. He’s drunk enough, thankfully, that he doesn’t care.  
  
“It’s not - he’s being unreasonable,” he mutters, “this whole thing is just fucking ridiculous, you know, it’s -”  
  
“Jesus Christ, yes, Mac’s at home!” Dee snaps. “He’s been drinking bourbon all night and I didn’t trust him not to brain himself on the sidewalk trying to get here. And thanks for that, by the way, I really enjoy strolling around this shithole of a neighbourhood in the middle of the night.”  
  
Dennis’ heart does something uncomfortable, indescribable - twisting simultaneously with relief and hurt. He opens his mouth, and then he closes it again.  
  
“Oh,” he says, lamely.  
  
Mac’s been drinking. Not unusual (to be honest, it would be more unusual if he hadn’t), and a half-decent reason for why Dee’s in the driver’s seat and not him, but there’s still a part of Dennis wishing, quietly and irrationally, that Mac had been the one to come for him anyway. It doesn’t matter that Mac is apparently buzzed enough that driving is out of the question, or that Mac can barely stand to be in the same room as Dennis right now, let alone willingly clean up his messes for him, it doesn’t _matter_. Mac couldn’t, logically or legally, have been the one to drive him home. Dennis resents him for his absence anyway.  
  
“Can you walk?”  
  
Dennis frowns, glancing over at Dee.  
  
“Why?”  
  
Dee sighs. She taps her fingers impatiently on the steering wheel.  
  
“I’m sleeping over at Annie’s tonight, I really can’t be bothered to chaperone you up three flights of stairs.”  
  
“Jesus, just move in with her already,” Dennis mutters - Dee cuts the engine as they pull up outside her apartment building and shoots him a sharp, wary look.  
  
“Who says I want -“  
  
“Dee,” Dennis mutters, clumsy hands struggling with his seatbelt, “I cannot remember the last time you even slept at your apartment, or the last time you went a day without talking about your fucking girlfriend - at this point I find it weird that you don’t live together. You’re like a pair of spinsters.”  
  
Dee’s quiet for a moment.  
  
“Get out of the car,” she tells him eventually, but there’s no anger behind it. Dennis appreciates the dedication, though, the way she sticks to the script anyway. One of Dee’s few redeemable qualities is that she understands how to keep their dynamic running smoothly even when they’re walking over unfamiliar ground. Unlike some people.  
  
“Whatever,” he says, opening the door and ducking out of it. The drive’s sobered him some, enough that the world stays on one axis as he stands up and hears the range rover’s engine roar back to life, watching it pull away from the sidewalk.  
  
The walk up to Dee’s floor somehow manages to take forever and no time at all. Dennis drags his feet as he approaches the apartment door - Schrödinger was onto something with those cats, honestly, because Dennis would rather stay out in the hallway all night than be reminded of precisely how much Mac doesn’t want him around. From this side of things he exists in a nomansland. Mac hates him, Mac doesn’t hate him; there is still a chance that Mac could let Dennis in himself and gently tug him forward by his wrists, clean the blood off his face in the bathroom then press him up against the sink and kiss him the way Dennis has been thinking about for days.  
  
He pushes open the door.  
  
Mac’s either asleep or feigning it well, lying on the couch with his back turned to Dennis. The curve of his body rises and falls slowly with his breathing.  
  
Dennis tries very hard, in his defence, to feel angry. He manages it for a minute or so but the flame eventually sputters out; replaced instead by a heavy sinking feeling that coils uncomfortably in his gut. It’s either guilt, disappointment, or the after-effects of the vodka cranberries. Possibly all three.  
  
He wipes a wad of damp tissues under his nose and around his jaw in the bathroom, throwing them into the bin once they’re the colour of rust and too sodden to be useful. He swills his mouth out with mouthwash. He walks silently across the living room towards Dee’s bedroom, and he doesn’t look at the silent figure curled on the couch; he doesn’t think about him either, as he slips under the sheets and reaches for the pillow on the other side of the bed, dragging it closer.  
  
Dennis doesn’t sleep. He lies awake on his side staring at the wall, a headache building behind his temples, cheek aching, pinched bruises on his arms itching, and he doesn’t think about waking Mac. Not once.

 

* * *

 

The temporary cancellation of Paddy’s Brunch is a blessing in disguise, for the sole reason that it means when Dennis starts to stir at sometime around midday he can languish in his hangover without worrying about his paycheck.

He’s only been to the bar twice since The Incident. Once for a closing shift he couldn’t find a way out of and once to try (unsuccessfully) to catch Mac off-guard and lure him into conversation. The brunch scheme is, in Frank’s own words, on hold while he sorts out ‘the kinks’ - what those are, exactly, Frank’s been reluctant to admit, but the freezer’s been moved out into the keg room, and strange hammering and whirring has been heard from the basement late into the night. Dennis doesn’t really give a shit, he’s just grateful for the respite and privately hopeful that the repair costs will be the knife that finally kills the whole goddamn idea once and for all.

None of this would’ve happened if he’d be in charge, obviously. The hectic dinner service, the stress, the fire hazard stove - especially not the basement thing. If Mac wants to be angry at someone he should be angry at Frank, because the truth is that ultimately? This isn’t Dennis’ fault. A scenario out of his control arose; Dennis reacted. Simple as that.

When he finally shuffles out into the kitchen in an old t-shirt and jeans, he isn’t surprised to find he’s alone. There’s a note on the coffee pot that he rips off and shreds without reading.

He doesn’t care about whatever it is Mac’s trying to cover up. He doesn’t. Mac is a grown man, he’s entitled to his secrets if he’s enough of an idiot to think he has any worth hiding from Dennis, but is it so much to ask that he put some fucking effort in? Just enough, maybe, that Dennis isn’t so acutely aware that he’s reading the same goddamn lie over and over again.

It’s more than ironic. _Talk to me_ , that’s the bullshit Mac had insisted on last week. Now he’s acting like Dennis doesn’t even exist.

He needs to shower, to drink something, to force some food down his throat. Instead he finds himself stumbling to a corner of the kitchen and sitting there with his knees tucked up under his chin. The crumpled remains of the post-it are clenched tight in his fist, the edges digging in, and he hates that he doesn’t understand. He’s done worse to Mac than this, that’s the most confusing part, he’s done _way_ worse: drugged him, scammed him, lied to him, manipulated him, and Mac’s done at least half those things to him in turn.

There is a possibility, small but growing larger with every day he’s ignored and avoided, that he’s triggered something he’s been half-expecting for years. He’s found Mac’s limit and pushed him over it. This is the beginning of the end of the line, this is the point where Mac leaves and finds someone new to obsess over, and Dennis is left alone to self-destruct. That’s probably what he’s been doing, after all, every time he’s claimed to be at the gym when that’s clearly not the full story, or even the real story at all. Out at The Rainbow or some other club for people like him, finding someone better. A young beautiful idiot who’ll follow him around for a change.

Maybe - maybe Dennis has let himself go. Maybe if he was thinner, if his jawline looked the way it did ten years ago and he could fit into his jeans from college, Mac would talk to him. Dennis is used to shaping himself around other people, wearing their expectations and admiration like a second skin - he can do that for Mac, if that’s what it takes to keep him here - except that doesn’t make sense. Not entirely. Before the fight Mac was on another one of his crusades to get Dennis to eat more; sweet-talking him into breakfast, coaxing him into dinner. Maybe that was all because Mac didn’t like what he saw in the first place; maybe it was Mac trying to change him into something more palatable. He’s probably given up by now.

Dennis, on a basis many would probably consider alarming, finds it incredibly frustrating that he can’t pry apart the thoughts of other people. He wants to take them for his own, dissect and examine every inch until he knows what is was he shouldn’t have said, what he shouldn’t have done. The uncertainty of it all provokes a feeling that’s not nausea, exactly, but something similar to it, deeper and more desperate: he wants to _know_ , but Mac won’t tell him shit and he can’t figure it out by himself.

He drags a finger through the faint layer of dust on the linoleum floor.

If he stepped up on the roof right now, started acting like he wanted to jump - he wouldn’t, obviously, it would all be part of the balancing act - but if he stepped up on the roof, and he texted Mac 911, would Mac come for him? He wouldn’t actually _do_ anything. If it worked he’d have Mac running back to him, and if it didn’t, he’s always been curious to know what he’d do in that kind of situation. If he’d have the balls.

His phone buzzes in his pocket. Dennis flinches at the sound and the vibration before fishing it out - his heartbeat betrays him, speeding up as he swipes past the lockscreen. The text is five emojis, all in a vertical column: a pointed finger, a mug of beer, a mountain, an hourglass, and a question mark.

Dennis sighs. His pulse slows back down from disappointment, relief, or potentially both. Reluctantly, he types out a reply.

_fine._

If he’s careful - if he plays it right - this could work out in his favour. For all his idiosyncrasies, Charlie is the only person who could ever rival him in terms of Mac-based knowledge. If Dennis finds a way to get him talking he might prove himself useful.

He stands up, walking over to the fridge, and grabs a fresh six-pack of Coors. He shoves the beer into one of the many plastic bags hidden under Dee’s sink, drops the crumpled post-it pieces in the trash, and then grabs a jacket off the kitchen counter before slipping out the door.

 

* * *

 

From the second he walks into the stairwell of Charlie and Frank’s building, he can smell the weed. It’s faint at first, to the point where he wonders if it’s some sort of phantom smell, but by the time he’s halfway down the corridor leading to Charlie and Frank’s apartment it’s both unmistakable and overpowering - and it’s also, he notes, wafting out from under their front door.

“Charlie?” he calls out, cautiously.

“Come in, dude,” Charlie’s voice says - slow and slightly muzzy, the way it gets when he’s high.

Dennis does. He frowns at first, confused: he can’t see Charlie, even if he can hear him, but just as he’s about to call out again, there’s a faint hiccup from the floor.

“What are you doing?”

“Y’know,” Charlie says, waving a vague hand at him. He’s spreadeagled on his back, staring up at the ceiling. He glances over languidly as Dennis approaches. “Just. Y’know.”

“Right,” Dennis says, masking the disappointment sinking in his gut. He’ll be lucky to get a full sentence out of Charlie at this rate, let alone -

“What’s up with that?” Charlie says, his brow furrowing as he points up at Dennis’ face. Dennis puts a hand to his jaw self-consciously.

“What?”

“Your _face,_ ” Charlie repeats, emphatically. “You look all stressed, or something.”

Before Dennis has even had a chance to reply, the expression on Charlie’ face clears.

“This is about the basement thing,” he says, nodding. “Oh, okay. Okay. I get it.”

Dennis rolls his eyes.

“This isn’t about the basement thing,” he says. He walks over to sit down on the floor next to Charlie anyway, shoving the six pack at him and taking one for himself.

“I get it,” Charlie tells him, sitting up as he cracks the tab and takes a long, indulgent sip. “No, seriously, he’s been bothering me about it too - and like, at first I was kinda pissed as well? ‘Cause it was a dick move, you and Dee ditching, but then he just kept _talking_ about it, non-stop, and it’s just-“

“At least he’s talking to you,” Dennis mutters, taking a disgruntled swig of beer.

Charlie frowns.

“Mac’s ignoring you?”

“Mac's ignoring me,” Dennis confirms - and now he’s started getting all this out in the open it’s surprisingly difficult to stop.

“That is weird,” Charlie states. Dennis snorts.

“Believe me,” he says, dryly. “I know.”

“That is _weird_ , dude,” Charlie says again, frowning. “He hasn’t shut up to me about you.”

Dennis perks up; his heartbeat racing like he just jumped from one high ledge to another.

“He hasn’t?”

“Your name comes up about fifty times a day, it’s annoying as shit.”

“What does he say?” Dennis asks - he’s coming off as too eager, he realises, so he clears his throat and takes another sip of beer, before adding, “not that it matters, obviously, I just-“

“Well, he complains a lot,” Charlie says. “And then he’ll talk about how much he doesn’t want to talk to you. And then usually he complains some more.”

Dennis snorts derisively. He opens his mouth, ready to say something acerbic and most likely rude; and then he shuts it again, because talking about Mac is making his stomach tie itself up in knots.  

“All right,” Charlie says, suddenly businesslike, patting Dennis on the leg. “Okay. Process of evisceration. We need to figure this shit out.”

Dennis frowns.

“I’m sorry, process of-“

“Evisceration, dude,” Charlie says. “Like - it’s where you figure out all the possibilities, and then you _eviscerate_ the wrong ones.”

“You know what?” Dennis says. “Sure. I’ll take it.”

Charlie takes another long swig of beer. He wipes his mouth, clears his throat, and fixes Dennis with a piercing stare that makes him want to fidget.

“Okay. All right. Talk me through the morning.”

Dennis leans back against the front of the couch, brow furrowed in concentration.

“We were arguing when we got to the bar,” he admits. “But that was just for the sake of it, neither of us were really pissed.”

“Go back further?”

“Same shit, different time.”

Charlie waves an impatient hand.

“Whatever. Further back.”

“That night was fine!” Dennis insists. “We didn't fight or anything, we just - you know.”

Charlie raises his eyebrows.

“Did you bang?”

Dennis’ stomach lurches.

“No!” he hisses, “Jesus Christ, what is it with you people and thinking Mac and I are banging?“

“It’s a simple question!” Charlie protests. “Yes or no?”

Dennis exhales shortly. He pinches the bridge of his nose.

“We did not bang,” he continues, careful and strained. “I cannot emphasise enough how much we did not bang, we just fell asleep in Dee’s bed for a change, I don’t see how that could have anything to do with this.”

Charlie stares at him.

“Dennis,” he says. “Bro. That is _so much worse_.”

“How is that worse?” Dennis says, incredulously. Charlie makes a shrill keening sound, and slams a palm against his forehead.

“How are you not getting this?”

“How are _you_ not getting this?” Dennis retorts. “It was platonic! It was exceptionally platonic, for chrissakes, what’s not platonic about two grown men sharing a bed from time to time-“

“There are,” Charlie says, “are at least five non-platonic things about that. At least.”

“You and Frank share a bed,” Dennis snaps. “Are you saying that’s non-platonic?”

“Frank’s doesn’t lay one on me every time I get pissed off, though,” Charlie points out, and it’s like all the air gets sucked out of Dennis’ chest at once, like someone’s pushed him head first into a vacuum. The feeling in the room changes, too - Dennis looks at Charlie, and Charlie looks at him, and Dennis hates him a little for having the nerve to cross that line.

He looks down, picking at a loose thread on his shirt sleeve and trying to think of a comeback. His words keep slipping away from him.

“I thought you slept in the same bed anyway,” Charlie says, after an awkward beat - Dennis clings to the subject change like a lifeline. “Y’know, from the post-suburbs arbitration.”  
  
“We used to,” Dennis explains. “But then Old Black Man traded up and started going to Artemis’ weird group sleep sessions -“  
  
Charlie brightens.  
  
“Dude,” he says, “me and Frank went to one of those! I mean, they smell kinda strange, ‘cus of all the incense and stuff? But the tea is _great_ , and the cuddling was -“  
  
“Yeah, anyway, weird,” Dennis says, wrinkling his nose. “And then Dee started bringing girls home and kicking us out every night anyway, so we went back to the couch and hammock situation.”

“Except for a week ago,” Charlie says.

Dennis nods, stiffly.

“Except for a week ago,” he finishes.

There’s another brief, uncomfortable silence. Then:

“Wanna smoke a little bit and mess around on the keyboard?”

Dennis sighs.

“Yeah, shit,” he says, draining the last of his beer. “Why not.”

 

* * *

 

After that, time gets hazy. The minutes of the day begin to stretch and elongate like honey or melted caramel, expanding out until the hours he and Charlie spend spilling beer on the couch cushions and cracking up over shitty stock drum beats feel limitless. A warm haze settles in the air: Dennis feel sated and sleepy, bundled up in a blanket of smoke.

The six pack dwindles to nothing and the blunt Charlie rolled does too, worked down to a glowing cherry of an ember and eventually dropped in one of the empty beer bottles lined up on the floor. They’re both sprawled out on the couch still, the keyboard propped up on its rickety stand in front of them.

“What rhymes with pale?” Charlie says, yawning, playing a lazy little ditty with one hand. Dennis frowns.

“Snail,” he offers. “Fail. Bail. Quail.”

“Quail?”

“S’like,” Dennis says, clicking his fingers as he searches for the right words, “you know, a bird. A little bird. Tiny fucking things.”

Charlie hums contemplatively. He tries out a messy snippet on the keyboard - Dennis wants to get into it, they’d been jamming pretty good a few minutes before, but there’s a question nagging at him, tugging at his seams.

“Charlie.”

“Hm?”

Dennis licks his lips, trying to figure out the best way to phrase it - the words feel fuzzy in his mouth, not entirely formed - and in the end they make their way out anyway, unsympathetic to his hesitance.

“What do I do?”

Charlie lolls his head over to look at him. His pupils are round and dark, and he looks very solemn, and very knowing, and very high.  
  
“Bro - all right, listen,” he says, stumbling over the words a little, the way he used to when they were kids, before he learned to cover it up. “Listen up. You made him sad.”

Dennis scowls.

“I didn’t,” he says. “He‘s the one who started all this -“

“Yeah, no,” Charlie says, “I get that, but that doesn’t mean shit, ‘cause Mac _feels_ like you made him sad. Get it?”

Dennis doesn’t.

“Mac’s complicated,” he mutters morosely. “When did Mac get complicated?”

“Feelings are complicated,” Charlie corrects. “An’ Mac’s got a lot of those.”

Dennis picks at his fingernails for a moment - when he looks up Charlie is staring at him, an oddly pensive expression on his face.

“What?” Dennis snaps.

“If you were a cat,” Charlie asks, frowning, “would you be, like, a calico or a tabby?”

“Calico,” Dennis says, after a moment’s careful deliberation. “I guess. If we’re going by coat pattern.”

Charlie nods to himself, looking bemused.

“No shit,” he says, sounding - impressed? Surprised? Dennis doesn’t know. Dennis doesn’t really want to know.

“What about you?” he finds himself asking, in an attempt to steer the conversation away from himself and towards more comfortable waters. Charlie frowns again, the hand not spread out on the piano keys toying with a stray bottle cap.

“I mean, right now?” he says. “Tabby. ‘Cause things are a little weird, with all the brunch disaster stuff and The Waitress stuff. But it’s okay, you know?”

“Sure,” Dennis says with a roll of his eyes, humouring him on a whim. Charlie snorts out a laugh, stretches his arms up, up, up above his head, cracking his neck, and then he flops backwards gracelessly, lying back against the couch.

“I’m gonna sleep,” he mumbles. Dennis pats him on the leg.

“See you, buddy,” he says, getting to his feet. Charlie lifts a hand and waves at him unsteadily, not opening his eyes.

 

* * *

 

During his first week of psych lectures in freshman year, Dennis’ very first assignment had been to take one of those bullshit quizzes that determines whether you’re an extrovert or an introvert. He’d expected the results to prove the latter at the time, but the truth is worse and the quiz had known it: Dennis hates being alone even more than he hates being around people. How that works, exactly, he isn’t sure, but he’s resented the quiz ever since for reading him like a book. He resents it with particular vehemence when he gets back to Dee’s apartment and Mac still isn’t there.

Dennis waits five minutes; Dennis waits ten. Dennis shifts on his feet, uncomfortably - double checks the text he’d sent after leaving Charlie’s ( _can we talk at home?_ ), and fiddles with his shirt collar. The apology is scrawled out in his notebook a few pages over from that goddamn list he’s been working on, and he just wants Mac _here_ already so that he can get this whole thing over with; so that he can read it out, so that Mac can forgive him, and so the two of them can spend the evening on the couch together, shooting the shit and watching a movie from the dvd pile.

Ten minutes turns into twenty. Twenty into thirty.

He’s probably at The Rainbow. Again. Even if he refuses to admit it. Mac’s becoming kind of a slut at this point: there’s a chance that if Dennis points that out it will earn him some form of physical contact and Mac’s attention for longer than a minute. Who does he think he fucking is, blowing Dennis off over and over and expecting him to stick around - being a follower? That’s Mac’s domain. Dennis knows better; Dennis _is_ better, Dennis is the kind of person people should be trailing behind.

The thoughts come the way they always do, the way they have since he was a kid, barrelling into him like a slap to the face whether he wants them or not. Mac’s body lying still on the floor, injured or worse; Mac bloodied up by Dennis’ own hand, by a kitchen knife -

Dennis staggers forward, swallowing down bile.

 “Stop it,” he hisses, pinching his wrist hard enough to make the skin of his knuckles turn white. “Stop it, stop it, _stop_ -“

The bruise on his cheek from the night before is throbbing dully. There’s another sitting low on his rib cage, murky and sullen, that hurts when he breathes in.

Dennis isn’t sure if he wants to die or not. Death is kind of gauche, in his opinion. It’s annoyingly final. He doesn’t want to leave forever, necessarily, he just wants to leave for now. For a long time. As long as it takes for whatever’s wrong with him to quieten down. Like when you hang a bed-sheet out to dry and sunlight makes the creases unfurl into nothing.

Except, of course, there is no in-between. You’re either alive or you’re not. If there really is an almighty creator, Dennis feels like they kind of dropped the ball on that one - he’d ask Mac to make a complaint to the management, but Mac isn’t talking to him and Dennis has never had any luck with praying by himself.

He walks unsteadily into the kitchen, the fresh bruises on his arm throbbing and forcibly tethering him down. He shakes the contents of a low calorie hot chocolate sachet into the Batman mug, the kind that only takes water and five minutes of patience, and 5pm finds him curled on the couch under the hideous throw blanket with his laptop balanced on his knees. He opens up a bookmarked video tab.

_“People perceive you as somewhat…"_

_  
_ _“Tempestuous?”_

 _  
_ _“‘Heinous bitch’ is the term used most often.”_

It says a lot, really, about the godawful state of his life right now, that 10 Things I Hate About You is growing on him.

Dennis takes a sip of the hot chocolate, which is as watery and tasteless as he expected but still nice to hold. He’s about twenty minutes in when he hears a key turn in the lock of the front door - he slams the lid of his laptop shut, his mug almost but not quite spilling in his lap.

“Hey,” he calls over, cautiously. Mac pauses halfway through putting his keys down on the counter, glancing at him. There’s scruff around his jaw - Dennis thinks about the way it would feel under his fingers, then shoves that thought somewhere deep enough that he won’t be able to find it for a few days.

“Hey,” Mac mutters. He jerks a thumb towards the bathroom and adds, “I’m gonna shower, so-“

For fuck’s sake, are they still doing this? Is Dennis really going to have to be the one who fixes things?

“Mac,” he starts, tired and snappish, but Mac, apparently in the mood for silent dramatics, just walks away like he can’t even hear him.

“Mac,” Dennis says again, louder, shoving the blanket off his shoulders and getting to his feet. Mac huffs and turns around to face him, stony-faced.

“What do you-“

“I’m sorry,” Dennis says. “All right? There. It’s done. You can stop now.”

Mac looks… bewildered. Vaguely pissed off, too, but when isn’t he these days - either way, this isn’t the reaction Dennis wanted and this isn’t the way he saw it going, and he’s itching to grab his notebook out his bag and check his apology notes - but if he does that now he’ll lose whatever tentative ground he just gained. Mac will think he’s an asshole again. _Shit_.

The first words Mac says to him all week are, “is that new?”

Dennis freezes.

“What?”

Mac inclines his head in the direction of the mug in Dennis’ hand.

“Oh,” Dennis says, caught off-guard. “I - yeah. Found it in that weird hipster store on 3rd.”

Mac looks closer at it: Dennis can tell the exact moment he reads the writing on the side, because a brief smile flickers across his face.

“I got it for you,” Dennis blurts out before he can stop himself, and then cringes so hard inside that his stomach hurts. Jesus Christ, he sounds desperate. “To - you know. Figured I should, since it was me who broke the last one.”

Mac blinks at him, looking slightly stunned.  
  
“Dennis,” he says - and the newfound softness in his voice, it’s too much. it’s all too much.  
  
“I’m showering first,” Dennis mutters, not looking at him as he quickly brushes past and beats Mac to the bathroom door.

 

* * *

 

The next morning comes and goes under a grey overcast sky, and Mac’s gone all day. Again.

Dennis wasn’t exactly expecting an apology to fix everything, but he was hoping it would at least fix _something_. The continued silence more than stings. At this point he’d rather peel his skin off than have to see Mac - but fate is nothing if not an uncharitable bitch, and he has a shift with him starting in twenty minutes. Or he would, if he weren’t already certain that he’s going to skip it.

Here’s his reasoning: he’s supposed to be working until closing, which means his shift will be dull and full of old drunks. He’s also suppose to be working with Mac, who’s still intent on giving him the world’s most pointed cold shoulder. In a week full of shit this is another shitty eventuality to add to the pile currently testing his patience, and Dennis isn’t sure how much higher it can go before it collapses and takes him with it.

He’s not been in bed all day, obviously. That would be disgusting. He was in bed for most of the day, and then half an hour ago he mustered up the energy to force down a granola bar and have a shower. Getting dressed is the next logical step. The thought rises to prominence and fades away again all in the same second, and Dennis ignores it as he shifts onto his back, the bed sheets rustling, staring up blankly at the ceiling.

At the very least, he’s already resigned himself to being late. Mac’s going to be pissed when he finds out but Dennis doesn’t really give a shit; he’ll take Mac’s anger over silence. He’d take anything over this and he hates himself for it, for how low Mac’s making him sink.

All of this is Mac’s fucking fault. That’s how he rationalises it when he huffs out an annoyed sigh and reaches for the lube stashed behind the nightstand - it’s Mac’s fault he’s angry, it’s Mac’s fault he’s empty and drifting, it’s Mac’s fault that Dennis has been reduced to this.

It’s pathetic for both of them, really. Mac’s over at Paddy’s, stubbornly hating Dennis, and Dennis is here hating him right back, while still imagining that the hand stroking over his cock isn’t his.

The first touch of his fingers to his hole has him hissing between his teeth. The second is easier, the lube warming a little, and the third is a smooth slide in that makes him shudder. He lets his legs fall further apart and reaches down with his other hand to palm the slick head of his cock again. A memory creeps up in his mind, unbidden: Mac holding him in the dark, Mac’s hands touching him, the way Mac had bitten a mark on his neck. He crooks his fingers up, riding them rougher, harder, biting his lip to keep himself from making a sound.

It’s embarrassingly easy from there: Dennis gets himself off with two fingers inside him and Mac’s name kept like a secret behind his teeth, and all he really achieves in doing is riding the wave of a dissatisfying orgasm and making himself more frustrated in the process.

It takes the edge off, at least. Enough for him to rise stiffly off the bed and clean up, before tugging on jeans and a button-up. It also makes his chest ache more with a sensation that Dennis has reluctantly identified, after seven days of ignoring it, as missing Mac - actual Mac, not this bullshit elusive stranger who spends more time at gyms and gay bars than he does with Dennis.

Fuck it, he’ll head to the bar after all. Frank will only cut his paycheck if he doesn’t. He can ignore Mac, and Mac can ignore him; he’ll come home alone and try not to think about Mac’s hands on his skin, and then he’ll throw a bottle or two at the wall while listening to his most recent Steve Winwood playlist on repeat. It won’t be the best evening of his life by far, but it won’t be the worst either.

His thighs ache in protest when he gets to his feet and he’s relieved, a little, when he realises the pain will probably keep him company through his shift. He doesn’t want to lose track of himself tonight. Dennis isn’t sick and he’s done playing into whatever placebo effect bullshit that psychiatrist guy had been spoon-feeding him, but back before all this - before Mac kissed him in the backroom two months ago, before the two of them managed to destroy the equilibrium they’d spent two decades trying to build, before he’d stopped paying attention to the little prescription bottle in the bathroom cabinet - it had been easier to ward off that heavy, drifting feeling he’s recently become so well acquainted with. It had been easier to do a lot of things.

Dennis walks into the living room and grabs his jacket off the couch. He heads out the door.

 

* * *

 

  
An hour or so into his shift, Dennis decides that while he hates a lot of things about Mac right now, the way he keeps making Dennis lose focus when he’s trying to be responsible and clean glasses deserves to be up there in the top three.

He has a pretty good view of him from where he’s standing by the bar. Mac’s stood next to the door looking down at his phone, leaning against the wall with one foot tucked back and resting against it. He’s supposed to be checking IDs, technically. Dennis would chew him out for slacking but that would involve making Mac move, and Mac looks - he’s nice to look at, in this light. His dark lashes are spread out over his cheeks, his lips are soft looking and pink; he’s wearing one of his stupid slogan shirts that he’s owned since the early 2000s and his exposed forearms would probably be considered indecent in several states. He’s distracting. Dennis doesn’t want him to be, but apparently he doesn’t get a say in the matter.

Here’s the thing: if it were up to Dennis, it wouldn’t have been Mac. Not in a million years. It would’ve been Jackie Denardo, or Sarah Connor from The Terminator - it would’ve been literally anyone else. Preferably someone who wouldn’t ignore Dennis for a whole week, then talk to him for five minutes, then ignore him again the next day. Someone easy to be with. Someone easy, period.

Someone, maybe, like the woman who just breezed in past Mac and is making a beeline for the bar.

Christie - ie, not a y, she tells him when he repeats it back to her - orders a rum and coke; Dennis flicks his eyes up to meet hers and smiles when he says, “sure thing.” Christie’s a server from the diner a few streets over but she’s in night school for teaching pre-k, and she laughs and tucks her blonde hair behind her ears when Dennis compliments her eyes - he’s in school too, he says. Nursing. He’s always wanted to help people. Christie brushes her hand up against his when he pushes her drink across the counter, and everything’s going well, exceptionally well, until Mac shows up out of nowhere and pulls him aside.

“Dennis,” Mac says, through gritted teeth. “Can I speak with you in the back room?”

 _No_ , Dennis thinks, vindictive and spiteful. _No, you can’t. I’m not at your beck and fucking call._

“Kind of in the middle of something here, buddy,” he says mildly.

“It’s urgent,” Mac says - his voice is calmer, but his eyes are still furiously dark, fists clenched tight at his sides. Something in Dennis’ chest constricts.

He shoots an apologetic smile at Christie who smiles back, uncertainly - and then he turns to follow Mac, who’s already stalked halfway towards the back office door. The latch has barely clicked shut behind them before Mac is turning to him with a look that says his temper is just barely restrained, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“You can’t just _do that_ , we’re in the middle of a goddamn shift-”

“So what?” Dennis retorts. “You’ve never had a problem with it before.”

“That’s not the point,” Mac snaps. There’s colour flushing high on his cheeks, a scowl settled heavy on his brow.

Dennis swallows.  
  
“I’m stressed,” he says.

Mac cocks his head to one side.  
  
“Calm me down,” Dennis tries instead.

Mac just stares at him.  
  
“Dennis,” he says, slowly. “What’re you -“  
  
“I want you to kiss me, asshole,” Dennis hisses.

There is a brief, unbearable moment, where Mac doesn’t do anything - frozen still. He just keeps staring at Dennis, his mouth gaping open.

“I - Dennis, you _left_.” He sounds confused, bordering on angry. “You left me alone.”

“Yeah,” Dennis says, slowly, “because I didn’t want to deal with the basement, and I’ve already grovelled at your goddamn feet, what does that have to do with any of this?”

“You left!” Mac snaps. “You were - you spent the whole night with me and then you made a run for it as soon as you had the chance, what was I supposed to think?”

“That I didn’t want to clean up meat water! Not that I wanted you to -”

“You kicked me out of our old apartment more than once,” Mac says, and it’s a low fucking blow, but if he wanted Dennis quiet he’s done the job. “You made me leave when you thought we were getting ‘stale’, you made me leave when you decided out of the fucking blue that you had to get hitched to your weird girlfriend from high school -”

 “So you’re still pissed at me?” Dennis taunts, stepping forward. “Is that what this is about?”

“Dennis,” Mac says warningly. Dennis has never met anyone else who says his name like that: like a threat and a term of endearment, all at once.

He curls his fists tight into the front of Mac’s shirt and kisses him, hard and blunt. Half a second later he shoves him backwards with just enough force to make Mac stumble.  
  
“Do something, then,” Dennis says. “Go on.”

Mac stares at him, his breathing ragged and his pupils blown dark. Dennis stares back defiantly. He can feel his hands shaking, and he hopes to god Mac hasn’t noticed.

Somehow, in the space between one second and the next, Mac has him pressed up against the desk. He hoists Dennis onto it, kissing him dirty and rough and open mouthed, and his hands slip under Dennis’ ass, encouraging his legs around his waist. Dennis pushes forward frantically, shamelessly, wrapping his arms around Mac’s neck to pull him in closer.

“I’m still pissed,” Mac tells him, low and slightly strained. The vibration of his voice thrums through Dennis’ chest.

Dennis’ fingers trace stray patterns on the back of his neck. The words are sat in the bottom of his throat, waiting: _I’m sorry._

“Yeah,” Dennis says. “I know.”

He doesn’t know what it is that makes him do it; maybe it’s the shadowed half-light of the back room, maybe it’s the adrenaline, maybe it’s Mac’s hands running up and down his body the way he’s been thinking about for days, stroking his chest, his thighs. Maybe there’s something in the air that makes the words slip out the way they do.

“I missed you,” he mutters, ducking his head to hide in the soft hollow of Mac’s collarbone.

Mac goes still. He exhales, and then one of his hands is moving to cup the back of Dennis’ head and keep his face pressed close. Dennis shuts his eyes and noses Mac’s skin, and when he presses his mouth to the column of Mac’s throat and starts to bite, sucking gently, Mac’s breathing audibly hitches.

Mac tilts his chin up with both hands. His tongue slips over Dennis’ bottom lip and Dennis lets him in without a second thought, opening his mouth wider and losing himself in the wetness and the heat of Mac’s tongue sliding against his. His hands scrabble up over Mac’s shoulders and push into his hair, tangling there and changing the angle slightly - Mac makes a sound, involuntary and low, and Dennis feels it through every place where they’re touching, through his whole body.

He could stay like this for hours. Mac stood between his legs, his hands stroking over Dennis’ thighs, his ass, kissing him soft and lazy like they have all the time in the world. Dennis’ arms stay folded around Mac’s neck as something inside settles finally into place, and he wonders how he managed it: an entire week without this.

 _We figured it out in the end_ , Dee had told him. Dennis lets his head fall to one side, giving Mac better access as he bites a trail down to Dennis’ collarbone. ‘Gay’ still feels like too much at once, makes his stomach twist uncomfortably, but maybe - maybe there’s another word, one to encapsulate in its entirety the feeling Dennis gets when he catches Mac looking at him. Maybe that’s what Dennis is. Dennis can’t be gay, but there’s a chance he could allow himself to be that.

Mac chooses that moment to slip a hand up under Dennis’ shirt and stroke the sensitive skin just below his navel, still scraping his teeth over the hollow of his throat; Dennis shudders, drags Mac’s mouth up so he can kiss it again. He’s half hard already and he knows Mac must be able to feel it from the way Dennis’ is pushed up against him. He rolls his hips, biting down on Mac’s plush lower lip, and Mac’s grip on him tightens as he pulls Dennis back off the desk and onto his feet.

“No,” he says, panting slightly. Dennis frowns.

“But I want -” he starts, and Mac huffs out a laugh.

“We have an actual bed and shit at home, dude,” he points out. The way his hands are running up and down Dennis’ waist is incredibly distracting. Dennis has a retort all planned out, but it feels like trying to talk underwater. He remembers how it felt earlier that day; riding his fingers and coming with Mac’s name caught in his mouth. A flood of heat runs down through him, his cock chafing up against the seam of his jeans.

“Then let’s go already,” he snaps, reaching out to pinch Mac’s side. Mac darts out the way and catches Dennis’ offending hand in his, linking their fingers together - and Dennis doesn’t have a fucking choice but to stare down at the floor and feel his cheeks burn, because if he looks at Mac now he’s absolutely going to say something he’ll regret.

It goes like this: they lock up two hours early and kick out the few straggling patrons they find lurking in the booths, and Dennis drives home with Mac’s hand wandering higher and higher up his thigh. They make it to the third floor and the second they’re inside the apartment Mac has him pushed up against the nearest wall with his wrists pinned above his head, biting at Dennis’ mouth like he wants to leave his mark on it - he grinds against the bulge in Dennis’ jeans and any air left in Dennis’ lungs is suddenly gone.  
  
“Mac,” he chants, low and feverish, “Mac, Mac, I need -“  
  
Mac must know, he always knows, because he kisses the corner of Dennis’ mouth and says, “I’ve got you,” in a voice that makes something inside Dennis splinter - and then his hands move to Dennis’ thighs, hefting them higher around Mac’s waist, like Mac’s intending to -  
  
“No,” Dennis warns, tugging sharply on his hair. “No, for chrissakes, you are not carrying me anywhere.”  
  
Mac’s petulant frown has no right to be as endearing as it is.

“I could do it.”  
  
Dennis snorts.  
  
“Doctor’s office,” he says, raising an eyebrow. “Remember?”  
  
“Yeah, _years_ ago,” Mac insists, a flush creeping up his cheeks, “literal years, dude, c’mon-“  
  
“One slipped disc,” Dennis argues, brushing their noses together, his hands carding through Mac’s hair, “and from the way you bitched about it you would’ve thought you’d snapped your goddamn spine in half, I am not dealing with that again.’

“I could do it,” Mac mutters, but he lets go of Dennis’ thighs and strokes his hands up over his hips instead. He doesn’t resist when Dennis pushes him backwards into the bedroom, when Dennis tugs his t-shirt off over his head and musses up his hair in the process. Their clothes intermingle on the floor, jeans, t-shirts, boxers - Mac’s socks are mismatched, which Dennis finds unduly amusing - and he’s barely finished tugging them off his feet before Dennis pushes him back onto the bed, sitting firmly on his lap with his legs settled on either side of Mac’s hips.

“Dennis,” Mac says, sounding annoyed. Dennis rolls his eyes.

“Jesus, what now?”

“Go slower, dude,” Mac says. He has the audacity to flick him gently on the goddamn nose. “I’ve wanted this forever, let me enjoy it while it happens.”

Something very strange is happening in Dennis’ chest: the tightening and loosening of a knot. It reminds him a little of the way he felt two months ago, hearing Mac’s confession while hidden on the couch. _I like kissing him_ , Mac had said then. _I’ve wanted this forever,_ Mac is saying now.

“What?” Mac asks, frowning a little, and he makes a surprised kind of sound against his mouth when Dennis kisses him but he doesn’t push him away.

“How long is that, exactly?” Dennis says. It comes out shakier than he‘d prefer.

Mac squints at him.

“I mean, like,” he says slowly. “Average length, dude. From what I can tell. Maybe a little thicker, I guess, I don’t know, you’ve seen it -”

“How long have you wanted this,” Dennis snaps, slightly strangled, “you _asshole_ , Jesus Christ, not how long’s your fucking -”

“Oh,” Mac says, flushing pink. “High school. Tenth grade.”

“That’s,” Dennis starts. _A long, long time to want someone like him_. “Specific.”

Mac’s hands start stroking slowly over his thighs.

“Remember that time we skipped gym because of a heatwave?” he says. “And it was, like, fuck knows how many degrees outside - I’d literally just busted Bradley Morgan for possession with intent to distribute, so I had a little extra in my stash, and we sat under the bleachers and took our shirts off ‘cause we wanted pillows, and you put your head in my lap like an idiot?”

“Vaguely,” Dennis says. Mac’s thumb strokes over his hip.

“Yeah,” Mac says, quietly.

Dennis doesn’t really have a reply to that - and even if he did, he wouldn’t voice it out loud. He leans forward and kisses Mac again instead, soft, open-mouthed, and as he starts to grind down on Mac’s lap he takes one of Mac’s hands off his hips and pulls it behind him, under him.

“You’re,” Mac says, his breathing speeding up, “fuck, did you already -”

“Yes,” Dennis snaps impatiently. It takes a lot to keep his voice steady. “Obviously. Before work.”

Mac kisses him again as he slides a finger inside him; Dennis shudders, eyes fluttering shut. He’s still a little slick-soft from before and it’s easier and harder than it was when he was alone - the discomfort eases quicker, but everything is heightened. Mac’s panting breath hot on his mouth, two of Mac’s fingers now working into his hole slowly, getting him loose and easy, the sound Mac makes in his throat when Dennis pushes even further onto his lap and kisses down his neck. Dennis ducks his head into the curve of Mac’s shoulder as he reaches in-between them, taking hold of Mac’s cock so that his thumb brushes over the slit after every shift of his hips.

“Jesus,” Mac breathes out, shivering - his cock jerks, precome slicking Dennis’ fingers, and if he weren’t so intent on getting fucked right now he’d be on his knees for Mac already, sucking him off.

“I thought about you the whole time,” Dennis says, swallowing down a moan, “the whole time, fucking knew you’d be good at this-“

“Knew you’d talk in bed,” Mac says, but he sounds distracted, a little awed. The clumsy kiss he presses to Dennis jaw makes Dennis feel like something worshipped. Dennis buries his face fully in Mac’s shoulder, his breathing heavy, and the hand not stroking Mac’s cock is threading through his hair and tugging hard enough that it must hurt.

It’s more intense than it was when he was alone; it’s swiftly becoming more intense than anything in his life has ever been. Sex is an act, a parlor trick, something to be performed and perfected while being kept at arm's length. Sex isn’t supposed to be like this. Mac shifting him so gently onto his back, hushing him when Dennis makes an soft, involuntary sound as his fingers slip out; Mac grabbing lube and a condom from somewhere under the bed and taking his goddamn time with two fingers that eventually become three, waiting until Dennis is grinding down on the sheets and cursing furiously to crook them up - and then Dennis scrabbles at the back of his neck to tug Mac down, keening breathlessly into his mouth.

“You good?” Mac asks him softly, nudging their noses together. The feeling rises up again, the same one he felt when Mac took his hand in the back room: he can’t look at Mac so he doesn’t, closing his eyes and turning his head to the side as he nods.

Except, of course, Mac refuses to leave it at that.

“Dennis,” he says. Dennis can practically hear the frown. “We can stop, y’know, if -“

“I don’t want you to stop, Jesus Christ,” Dennis spits out, opening his eyes to glare in a way that’s hopefully as demanding as it feels, but Mac’s expression suggests otherwise. He swipes the thumb of his free hand over Dennis’ cheek. It comes away wet.

“Dennis,” he says again, doubt creeping further into his voice, and Dennis takes matters into his own hands - he leans up and kisses Mac on the mouth, steady and sweet, and he shifts his hips to fuck himself back on Mac’s fingers, settling into a rhythm.

“Come on,” he says, his breath skating over Mac’s cheek, “come on, _please_ -“

But Mac’s still looking at him like that, worrying his bottom lip with his teeth as his brown eyes trace over Dennis’ face like he’ll find an answer there.

There’s nobody in the room but them; nobody to see this but them. Nobody will ever know anything at all about this moment except him and Mac. Dennis reminds himself of it again and again as he lets one of his hands slip down from Mac’s neck and takes a gentle hold of the hand on his cheek, lacing their fingers together.

“Please,” he repeats, softly.

Dennis has done this before. Three times in his dorm room at Penn, once in his and Mac’s old apartment on a night Mac had stayed over at Charlie’s. On all of those occasions, Dennis had turned his face down into the pillow and spent as little time as possible looking at the people behind - and that had worked just fine.

When Mac pushes slowly into him, they’re face to face in the dark. It’s been a while, more than a year; long enough for him to forget the fullness and the pressure. One of Mac’s hands is on Dennis’ inner thigh, steadying him, but the other stays right where it is - pressed into the pillow beside Dennis’ head, Dennis’ fingers curled together with his - and when Dennis’ breathing stutters he tightens his grip so gently, so carefully, that Dennis has to close his eyes.

“Is this -“ Mac breathes out, and Dennis decides the best way to answer him is to lean up and press their open mouths together, catching him mid-sentence as he curls his hands into Mac’s hair hard enough to hurt. He rolls his hips, making Mac’s cock sink into him further, and then Mac’s pressed up fully inside.

It’s - it’s a lot. That’s the understatement of the goddamn year: Mac’s in every one of his senses, the shaking sound of his breathing, the faint tang of sweat, the taste of him all over Dennis’ mouth. The way it feels when he pulls back and thrusts home again, setting a slow rhythm that has heat building low in Dennis’ stomach.

“Sure this is all right?” Mac says, a little out of breath, and Dennis manages to find it in him to roll his eyes.

“Rest assured,” he retorts, dryly, “that the only thing bothering me right now is your inability to shut up and-“

“I’m trying to be _considerate_ ,” Mac says - and then utterly disproves his own point by shifting his hips slightly, his cock sliding in deeper and finding an angle that has Dennis shuddering and lifting his legs up higher, biting down on Mac’s shoulder to stay quiet.

 “Do that again,” he demands, and when Mac does he moans, clawing at Mac’s neck, tugging him down into something messier and more intimate than a kiss. Mac’s mouth is parted against his as his hips work smoothly; Dennis’ cock is trapped, leaking and hard, in the space between them, and every time Mac fucks into him and pulls back, it drags across Mac’s navel. One of Mac’s hands slides between them, thumbing the head between thrusts, and Dennis can feels his legs tighten around Mac’s hips, his hole tighten around Mac’s cock. Mac can too, apparently, because he shudders and swears and starts going slower, deeper, until his cock is brushing up against the place inside that has Dennis gasping, one hand scrabbling at the sheets and the other pulling on Mac’s hair until Mac gets with the program and kisses him again, heavy and open mouthed, both forearms on the sheets next to Dennis’ head.

“Dennis,” Mac breathes out. Dennis rocks back against him, meeting every thrust with an upwards curl of his hips - Mac makes a low, choked sound that might be his name again, and Dennis, emboldened, digs his heels into the small of Mac’s back, forcing him closer, so close he can press his teeth to Mac’s neck and bite. He’d forgotten, or maybe hoped he’d forgotten, how much he loves this; how good it feels. The way Mac’s cock fills him and the way Mac holds him down to keep the angle just as it is.

He needs to keep his mouth occupied, before he tells Mac half of the things that are threatening to make themselves heard. He’s fighting a losing battle.

“You’re so good,” Mac says, sounding a little dazed, “you - fuck, you look so good like this,” and Dennis feels something warm and tingling sink right down to his toes in response, precome slicking over their stomachs as his cock jerks. He feels entirely surrounded and he doesn’t care, low little breathless sounds being punched out of him as Mac thrusts into him harder - Mac’s a mess, sweating and red faced, and he’s looking down at Dennis with a expression that’s unbearably soft, bordering on reverent.

One of Dennis’ hands slips down from Mac’s neck and edges between them, and as his fist closes around his cock Mac finds that places inside him again, making a rush of heat shoot down his spine - it’s so much, too much, and Dennis arches off the bed and chokes out a cry - come slicks over Mac’s stomach and his own thighs and Mac ducks his head and presses wet, feverish kisses to the hot skin of Dennis’ cheeks and his open mouth. One of his hands pushes Dennis’ aside and strokes him through it and Dennis lets out a moan, fucked out and low, his hips twitching in a way he can’t help.

His legs are shaking as they slip down from Mac’s ass. Mac’s free hand strokes down his thighs to his knees, rubbing little circles with his thumbs. Dennis needs to touch him - which feels absurd, considering how much they’re touching already - but he gives into the urge without thinking about it too hard, curling both hands loosely over Mac’s cheeks, smoothing his thumbs over his cheekbones and guiding him into a kiss. Mac rocks into him slowly as he kisses back, sucking lazily on Dennis’ bottom lip.

“Come on,” Dennis mumbles nonsensically against his mouth, rolling his hips, “come on, I want-“

Mac’s breathing hitches. Dennis zeros in on the sound and shifts his hips again, deliberate and slow, encouraging Mac’s cock in deeper and welcoming the ache behind his thighs - he wants to feel this for days, he wants Mac to feel it too. He wants Mac to think about this just as much as he will, so he tilts his head up and sucks sharply on the sensitive spot just underneath Mac’s jaw, determined to leave his mark.

Mac groans, muttering something unintelligible, and Dennis bites down harder and keeps moving his hips greedily, meeting every one of Mac’s sharp thrusts - when Mac comes he can feel it even through the condom, a heady warmth filling him from the inside out as Mac’s whole body seems to stutter to a halt. Mac’s face is pressed against his neck, breathing heavily, his lashes wet; Dennis tilts his hips up one last time, letting Mac ride out the last of his orgasm, and Mac makes this soft, breathless little noise that for some reason hits Dennis like a punch to the gut.

“Hey,” he whispers, stroking his fingers through Mac’s damp hair. “Hey.”

Mac nuzzles into his collarbone. Dennis tugs on his hair, trying to coax him off, but Mac just stubbornly curls closer, slipping down from Dennis’ hips until he’s half-lying across Dennis’ chest and half-spread out on the ruined sheets.

“You’re good,” Mac mumbles eventually, not lifting his head. “At that.”

Dennis snorts.

“D’you always get this sleepy after sex?” he says. Mac lifts his head to scowl at him.

“I just pounded your ass, dude,” he points out. “I did ninety percent of the work. I’m allowed to be tired.”

“There are at least fifty other ways you could have phrased that,” Dennis mutters, rubbing a hand over his eyes, “and I would have preferred any of them.”

“That so?” Mac says. He brushes their noses together as his mouth curves up into a grin, sweet and a little giddy. Dennis brushes his thumb over the dimple sitting on the curve of his cheek.

“Yes,” he says, long-sufferingly. “Because we’re trying to establish a mood, here.”

“I can do that,” Mac murmurs, tilting his head up and brushing their mouths together. It’s dry and soft, the edges clumsy with sleep. Dennis sighs into the kiss, letting Mac’s tongue slip over his bottom lip and into his mouth. The dark makes everything feel heightened, every touch, every breath - Dennis hisses between his teeth when Mac pulls out, and after he’s dealt with the condom Mac presses a trail of kisses apologetically to his neck.

He’s so _careful_. Dennis doesn’t know how to feel about it so he decides to kiss him again, tugging gently on Mac’s hair until they’re face to face and then pressing forward, his eyes flickering shut, pushing his tongue into Mac’s mouth and focusing on this and nothing else. The heavy smell of sex, the warm and sated feeling seeping into his limbs. The way Mac’s hands fit around his jaw to cup his face, pressing in close again and again, sweet and teasingly brief little kisses that make Dennis feel like something valued, something cared for.

“Mac,” he blurts out, pulling back, a knot in his chest coiling and uncoiling. Mac’s eyes flick up to meet his, questioning.

Dennis swallows.

“Sorry,” he says. “I - for the ditching thing. I didn’t think about it, and I can... I get it. Why you were pissed.”

Mac’s expression shifts from confusion into something Dennis can’t parse - his heartbeat jumps, ice leaping up into his throat at the idea that he’s somehow managed to break everything again - and then it drops back down a little when Mac sighs and shifts closer, ducking his head again to press a kiss to Dennis’ neck and slinging an arm around his waist that Dennis clings to, his nails digging in.

“Just be here when I wake up,” Mac mutters, “and we can call it even.”

 _I will if you will_ , Dennis thinks. His grip on Mac’s forearm tightens.

“Yeah,” he says, quietly. “All right.”

They should shower and change the sheets. He can already tell that Mac’s going to be a bitch and insist on him eating something, and he can also tell it’s probably going to end up being takeout that they’ll need to order. Once Mac’s asleep and his privacy is guaranteed, Dennis needs to get his notebook out and work on the list - all this new material, it changes things. He has some rewrites to do.

Mac is a warm weight slung over his left side. One of his arms is curled around Dennis’ chest, the other playing absently with his hair, and he has a leg hitched over Dennis’ hips like he’s trying to fit around him like a vine or a puzzle piece. Dennis’ shuts his eyes, lulled into a doze by the easy rise and fall of Mac’s chest, the distant rumble of cars passing by on the road below.

They should do a lot of things. He’s starting to think, though, that maybe the world won’t end if they do this instead. Just for a little while.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have no excuse for this chapter being so late, my loves, except that it's about 5k longer than i predicted and it just. kept going?? i promise i'm working on shorter chapters with shorter update times, but keeping the balance is tougher than i expected and, as evidenced by this 12k pos that's two weeks overdue, i am spectacularly bad at it.
> 
> also, if u've left a comment and i haven't replied: i love u and i appreciate u beyond words and i'm sorry my response time is so slow!! if ur feelin it come chat w me abt macden on [tumblr](https://azirapha1e.tumblr.com) and i'll make it up to u <3


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> cws for non-graphic self harm, internalised homophobia, violent intrusive thoughts, mania, brief mentions of disordered eating, and the bastard man.

Julia Stiles has no idea how easy she had it.

Here’s the thing: Dennis’ list is obviously superior. It doesn’t rhyme, for one thing - every word has been chosen deliberately, for another. He’s created a work of unparalleled artistry, six bullet points down and four to go, tucked away safely in a one dollar notebook. The problem is that he’s reaching a point in the process where he needs to plan ahead, but Dennis isn’t a high school student working on some contrived poetry assignment - he can’t just walk up to the front of the class and read it out. He has no class to walk to the front _of_. He hasn’t had a class at all since the mid-90’s. It’s not just as simple as catching Mac alone, either; everything has to be perfect. The air has to have just the right amount of tension, just the right amount of silence, and moments like that don’t appear out of thin air. They have to be crafted.

He’s decided to do it here. In their room. He’ll have Mac sit on the bed and he’ll read out every perfectly worded phrase, and Mac will look at him like he’s everything. Dennis will be everything. He’ll tie Mac to him so tightly that he’ll never think to leave. He’ll walk the line between the truth and what Mac wants to hear and do it so well that Mac won’t even realise it’s a balancing act.

There’s a rustle from the huddle of bedsheets next to him.

It was five past six, the last time Dennis checked his phone, but he’s dozed a little since then. Judging by the light pushing in under the blinds it’s still early enough that he can probably talk Mac into going back to sleep. He rolls over to do just that, and finds himself staring into Mac’s brown eyes, warm and slightly unfocused as he blinks, drowsily -

And then he’s being kissed, slack and soft, on the mouth.

Dennis‘ stomach jumps, wildly. It’s morning, they don’t do this the morning after, he needs to get away. He can taste Mac’s sour morning breath, feel the dry warmth of his lips. He needs to get _away_.

“Wha’ happened?” Mac mumbles, confused and clearly still half-asleep, lifting one hand up from under the covers to prod at Dennis’ cheek. Dennis is caught off-guard for a moment, the feeling of Mac’s thumb running over his jaw crumbling all his thoughts to pieces - and then the skin there aches faintly, and he remembers multiple vodka cranberries and an unfamiliar bar, a heavy fist colliding with his face.

“It’s old,” Dennis tells him, batting Mac’s hand down. “Don’t worry about it.”

Mac makes a low sound in his throat, dissatisfied, so Dennis does the only thing he can think of and copies him, kissing him again. Mac gives in, but only for a moment - two seconds later and he’s ignoring Dennis’ swatting fingers, his hand back on Dennis’ face.

“Dennis,” he says, sounding slightly more awake and definitely more pissed. The _tell me_ underneath goes unsaid, but Dennis hears it all the same - Mac’s always had a weakness for this, needing to know the full story. Watching Inception with him a few years back had been borderline torture.

“No,” Dennis says. He lets a note of warning slip through.

Mac goes still. Against all odds he leans in close, ducking his head and nosing at Dennis’ neck. He means it as a distraction, Dennis can tell. Using Dennis’ own trick on him not half a second after Dennis used it himself; trying to persuade Dennis to soften, to let his secrets slip out.

“You have anywhere to be this morning?” Dennis says, pointedly. Mac stiffens.

“Dennis,” he says again, quiet and exasperated - Dennis cuts him off.

“It’s not the gym,” Dennis says. “I know it’s not. Don’t bullshit me.”

Mac exhales, shortly.

“No.”

“The Rainbow?”

“Also no. I mean - yeah, a few times, but not -”

“Rex?” Dennis asks; and it takes a lot of effort, that one, a lot of practised composure and pinching one of his thighs under the covers to keep his voice steady and unassuming. Mac frowns at him like Dennis has said something so far out in the left field it’s practically off the pitch, and he can’t tell if it makes things better or worse.

“Jesus, Dennis,” he says, “ _no_ , why the fuck would I-”

“What am I supposed to think?” Dennis snaps.

“Can you just -” Mac says, and he trails off, rubbing a hand across his eyes like he’s been awake for the past eight hours, not sleeping through them. “Can you drop it? If I swear to tell you later?”

 _Absolutely not_ , Dennis thinks.

“Fine,” he says. He keeps his voice quiet; adds some reluctance to it, too, just to sell the whole performance a little more. “Whatever.”

Mac’s giving him a look. Dennis stares right back, stubbornly unrepentant. Sometimes he wonders if Mac knows what he’s getting into, baring the tender underbelly of himself up when Dennis is, or at least feels like, something lacking in inhibition with very sharp teeth - but then there are moments like this. Mac knows he’s lying. Dennis knows that he knows.

“How’re you feeling?”

Mac says it in that voice he’s picked up lately - careful and deliberate, like a kid who’s been told to read a paragraph from the textbook out loud.

“Jesus christ,” Dennis groans. “Come on, don’t -“

“It’s really not that hard, dude,” Mac points out.

Dennis rolls his eyes up to the ceiling and closes them.

“Hungry,” he mutters, eventually. This was apparently the exact wrong thing to say, because when he glances over Mac’s grinning at him like he just hung the goddamn moon - he pulls away from Dennis, taking the warmth and softness of his body with him, and gets up to disappear into the living room.

Thirty seconds pass. Then a minute. Then, just as he knew he would, Dennis smells the smoke. Despite vast amounts of anecdotal evidence to the contrary, Mac still insists it’s more efficient if you cook toast on max for one minute rather than on medium for two. He curls onto his side and closes his eyes, hoping to slip back into a doze before Mac barges in again - with any luck Mac will think he’s sleeping, and he’ll be able to avoid breakfast altogether.

His phone starts buzzing, insistently and repeatedly, on the bedside table.

Dennis doesn’t even have time to cuss out whoever’s had the gall to call him before he’s dosed himself up with caffeine, because the second he picks up Frank says: “I got it all sorted. Get down to the bar.”

“What, _now_?”

“Don’t ask stupid questions,” Frank says firmly.

“Frank, I’m not going to -“

There’s a click, and then the flat sound of the dial tone hums in his ear.

Dennis throws his phone somewhere on the sheets, which is at least a better choice than throwing it at the wall. He swings his legs onto the floor and sits on the edge of the bed, head in his hands. God, fuck Frank. He hates him. He hates this idiotic mess of a scheme and the way it won’t goddamn end.

The bar is supposed to mean stability, a central point around which they all chaotically orbit. Dennis has used it for years, the way he uses a lot of things, as a blockade. A levee. Paddy’s is a tether - or it was, before everyone else decided to break the whole system for the sake of one pointless, impulsive idea - and without it, he doesn’t know what he can use to fill the space in his chest and tie him down.

His skin prickles a little, like he’s being watched. When he looks up he finds that he is: Mac’s stood in the doorway looking at him, munching on toast, a steaming mug of coffee in his other hand.

“Brunch is back on,” Dennis mutters, picking at a loose thread on the sheets. Mac swallows, nodding happily.

“Sweet,” he says, sounding… appreciative. Almost excited, or about as excited as someone can get before 7am.

Dennis frowns at him.

“Mac, I cannot believe you think this is a good idea,”’ he says, and he tenses as Mac walks forward to stand in front of him, kicking lightly at his bare ankles. He takes a long sip of his coffee before handing the mug over to Dennis’ waiting hands.

“We scam a couple of yuppies, we sell some margaritas, by the end of today we’ll have a grand in the bank. Where’s the problem?”

Dennis doesn’t bother dignifying that with a reply. He drinks some of the coffee instead, wrinkling his nose at the taste of creamer and sugar, and sets the mug down on the bedside table. Mac rolls his eyes.

“It tastes like ass when you drink it black,” he says, defensively.

“It tastes like ass right now,” Dennis points out.

“So don’t drink it,” Mac says, his voice slightly muffled by the shirt he’s tugging over his head, and it’s not endearing, exactly - Mac’s not the kind of guy that word was made for, in Dennis’ opinion - but it’s something similar. Second cousins of endearing, twice removed. Mac ruffles a hand through his hair once the shirt’s off, making his tousled bed-head even worse, and when he walks across the room to grab his towel off the hook on the door Dennis finds himself oddly mesmerized by the muscles of his back and the way they shift under his skin.

If Paddy’s Brunch were still a distant pipe-dream, if they didn’t have to be down at the bar within the hour, Dennis thinks maybe he’d bend the rules a little. Wrap himself around Mac from behind. Press his mouth to the dark trail of bruises on Mac’s collarbone and brush his fingers on the sleep-warm bare skin of Mac’s chest, down his stomach. It wouldn’t matter - not with the way the lazy haze of morning is still hanging over them both, obscuring them from view like steam on a mirror.

“Eat some toast,” Mac calls out, heading over the bathroom - by which he probably means, _eat the cold and carbonised pieces of shit I left out on the counter, or I’ll spend all day staring at you like a dog that got its tail trodden on._

“Jesus christ,” Dennis mutters. He drags himself to feet.

 

* * *

  
He picks the music on the drive to Paddy’s in the hope of finding some relaxation there, but the journey itself ends up being dominated by a well-worn, familiar argument: Bryan Adams lyrics.

“He’s saying sixty nine,” Mac insists emphatically, “because he’s talking about all the banging he was doing.”

“Summer of sixty nine means the summer of that year!” Dennis snaps, pulling into his parking spot. “This isn’t even up for discussion, this is just common goddamn sense -“

“You’re looking at this all wrong, bro,” Mac says, ducking out the car and waiting on the pavement as Dennis slams the driver’s side door and locks up.

“You’re looking at it wrong,” Dennis mutters. Apprehension starts to seep into his chest like a trickle of ice water as they head towards the bar - and he can’t tell if it’s an accident or intentional or something in-between, but Mac’s fingers brush up against his as they walk. Mac pushes open the door with his other hand, saying some shit about song lyrics and double meanings that Dennis isn’t really listening to, still caught up in the feeling of Mac’s thumb running over his wrist, when:

“Are you holding hands?”

“No!” Dennis snaps, scowling. Mac’s stroking fingers hurriedly retreat, and Dennis hates Dee a little more than usual for scaring him off.

“You were,” Dee insists, sounding delighted. “You _clearly_ were! I saw it.”

“Saw what?” Charlie asks, emerging from the basement and wiping his hands on his jeans.

“Mac and Dennis holding hands,” Dee says, before Dennis even has a chance to fight his corner. Charlie nods, seemingly satisfied.

“Nice,” he says. “You two made up yet?”

“Shut up, both of you,” Dennis hisses, but it’s about as effective as stepping out your front door and asking a hurricane to leave. Frank opens his mouth from where he’s sat at the counter, surrounded by nut shells and chewing on pistachios - and then, by some blessed twist of fate, Mac beats him to it.

“Dee,” he says, slowly. “Is that a hickey?”

Dee freezes.

“What?”

“Oh, nicely spotted,” Dennis says, letting his voice slip into a drawl. “Very nicely spotted, Mac. Excellent work.“

“I have no idea what you - Jesus Christ, Charlie, let go of my shirt -“  
  
“It’s a hickey!” Charlie calls out, pointing triumphantly at the mark in question. “Sweet Dee’s been hicked!”

Frank shakes his head, spitting a pistachio shell out onto the floor.

“Deandra, get that shit off your neck before the customers think they’re in a whore house."

Dee frowns.  
  
“What’s not sexy about a hickey, exactly?”  
  
“You look like a kid I saw in ‘nam who got bit by a bat,” Frank says bluntly. “We want _clean_ sex appeal, not this gothic shit. Goths don’t sell.”

Dee gapes at him.

“Frank, it is incredibly homophobic,” she starts, scowling, “to say that my gay hickey isn’t clean-"

“There is - there’s literally no point, Jesus Christ,” Dennis mutters, since apparently he’s the only person in this building with some common goddamn sense, and then he grabs her by the arm and tugs her across the floor into the men’s bathroom. He lets go again once they’re inside, striding over to the cracked mirror on the wall closest to the door and pulling a make-up bag out from behind it.

Dee frowns at him.  
  
“You keep make-up in here?”  
  
“Dee, I keep make-up in every room of this bar,” Dennis says. “Why do you think you’ve never seen me with pores?”

Dee stares at him.  
  
“That’s,” she says, slowly. “Unhealthy.”  
  
Dennis raises his eyebrows, lifting the make-up bag tantalisingly in one hand, just out of reach of Dee’s grabbing hands.

“Do you want concealer or not?”  
  
“Oh my god, yes,” Dee snaps. “Fine.”  
  
There’s a brief silence: Dennis shifts uncomfortably as Dee leans closer towards her reflection, carefully patting a brush over her neck.

“You’re so pale,” she complains, frowning at the mirror. “ _How_ are you so pale, I feel like the goddamn corpse bride.”

“I’m not pale,” Dennis says. “You’re just blotchy, that’s not - don’t go critiquing me. Your technique is awful.”

Dee snorts.

“Dennis, I spent years dolling my baby face up for those pageants, I think I know what I’m doing.”

“Yes,” Dennis says, “exactly, you do know what you’re doing. Pageant makeup. Sexual circus clowns. Etcetera.”

Dee whirls around to face him, scowling - and then her eyes flick down away from his face, and her expression changes within a split second.

“What’s under your collar?”

Dennis takes a step back.

“Nothing,” he says, carefully, lifting a hand to cover up his neck; but Dee is too quick for him, darting forward and tugging down the shoulder of his shirt.

“You hypocrite,” Dee says, in mild disbelief. “You goddamned hypocrite, holy shit -”

“Get your talons off me,” Dennis snaps, pushing her back and hastily tugging his shirt back up, smoothing down the fabric.

“So you _are_ banging,” says Dee. Dennis makes a high, strangled sound.

“Why do you give a shit?”

“Because it affects the betting pool,” she tells him, waving a dismissive hand. “Don’t be a bitch over it - the real question is, why does everyone care that I have a hickey?”

“Dee, nobody cares that you have a hickey,” Dennis says. “We’re trying to con people into thinking this bar is a family friendly establishment, the hickey gets in the way of that.”

Dee frowns, pausing with a mini bottle of setting spray half raised in one hand.

“So none of you are even slightly interested in my life? Seriously?”

Dennis rolls his eyes.

“Obviously not,” he says, and he has more to say on this topic, but before he can there’s the familiar rattle of the door to the bar being opened.

“Who the hell is -” Dee whispers, but Dennis shushes her sharply, drawing one finger across his throat as he walks over to the bathroom door, pressing his ear against it.

“I’ve got a delivery here for Paddy’s Pub?”

“That’s us, that’s us,” Frank’s voice says, distantly. “Are you the beef or the watermelons, ‘cause either way you’ve gotta park up out back -”

“It says here you commissioned a set of custom uniforms? Does that sound familiar?”

Dennis whips his head around to stare at Dee. Dee stares back at him, stricken and wide-eyed.

“I thought we cancelled that,” she hisses. “You know, when we phoned the -”

“He must’ve reordered,” Dennis says, faintly. “Shit. _Shit_. Goddamn, that fucking bastard -”

There’s a loud hammering on the bathroom door, and they both jump.

“Staff meeting in the backroom,” Charlie shouts.

Dennis makes a strained, choked sort of sound, trying very hard not to slam his fist into the wall.

“We’re coming,” he yells back, his voice getting dangerously close to a snarl.

“I’m not going out there,” Dee says. “I’m not doing it.”

“You don’t have a - goddamnit, Dee, if I’m suffering, you’re suffering -”

“Yeah,” Dee says, “no. No, you can go out there, I should - I should stay in here, fix my neck up. You know. The others will understand.”

“Guys, c’mon,” Charlie calls, sounding aggrieved.

Dennis makes one final gesture at Dee - a wild, desperate point towards the door that has Dee shaking her head and darting into one of the bathroom stalls, slamming the lock shut.

Dennis shuts his eyes. He pinches the bridge of his nose. Then, trapped like a bird in a cage with no other exit, he walks out into the bar.

* * *

 

“All right,” Frank says. He nudges the cardboard box in front of him with the toe of his shoe. “We got the aprons, and we got the bandanas. Charlie?”

“So it goes on like this,” Charlie says, tugging one of the neatly folded aprons - bright green, with ‘Paddy’s’ emblazoned across the front in an offensively floral cursive - out of box, and pulling it over his head. “Easy peasy. And then the bandana, it’s kind of a personal preference thing, ‘cus you can go for the classic on the head sort of look, or you can use it as a neckerchief.”

“Thank you,” Dennis says. “For the apron wearing tutorial. I needed that.”

“So - hold on,” says Mac, frowning. “Where do you tie it? In the front?”

Dennis closes his eyes and tries, very hard, to count to ten.

“How would it stay on,” he says, through gritted teeth, “if you tied it in the front, Mac, that doesn’t make any-”

“You could totally wrap it around, though!” Mac protests. “That way it would be even more secure.”

“It’s a back tie,” Charlie says. “Loving that innovation, though. Keep it comin’.”

Dennis rolls his eyes. He opens his mouth, a tirade poised and ready to go, but Charlie beats him to it.

“Hey, Dennis?” he says, apologetically. “Dude, I’m kind of your line manager now, since Frank promoted me, so. You’re gonna need to shut up.”

Dennis’ fists are starting to hurt from being clenched so hard. He turns, trembling, on Frank, like a viper that’s been prodded with a stick.

“You promoted the man who flooded our basement?”

Frank shrugs.

“Yeah,” he says. “Risky situation like that, takes a lot of balls to try it out.”

“It absolutely does not take balls,” Dennis says. “It takes stupidity and a ten gallon freezer filled with sausage meat.”

Dennis has a lot to say about this - what about him, for starters, where’s his promotion, when he’s been carrying the brunt of Paddy’s on his shoulders since day one and before Frank even decided to con his way in - but, yet again, finds himself interrupted before he even has a chance to start.

“Charlie,” Mac says, “bro, is this right?”

He’s got one of the aprons on and tied it neatly at the waist. Dennis swallows around a lump in his throat that wasn’t there half a second ago, his eyes stuck on the broadness of Mac’s shoulders, the way the apron fabric clings to his chest, defines his hips; the fucking _neckerchief_ , Jesus Christ, the whole ensemble is so camp and tacky and, and -

“Shit yeah, dude!” Charlie hollers, lifting his hand up to give Mac a victorious high five. “Got it in one!”

“It’s an apron,” Dennis says, his mouth still oddly dry, “what’s there to get -“

“It’s all about the aesthetics, Dennis,” Frank insists, spreading his arms wide. “These millennials, they’re gonna lap this shit up.”  
  
He says it like other people are gonna be looking at Mac - which they will be, Dennis realises. A flash of something hot and uncomfortable goes off in his chest like a signal flare.

“I’m not wearing it,” Dennis snaps. “Nobody’s wearing it.”

“Do you want a paycheck?” Frank asks.

“I - well yes, clearly, but -”

“You’re wearing it,” Frank says, in a tone that leaves no room for argument, and the apron he throws hits Dennis square in the face.

 

* * *

 

He decides to keep count of things throughout his shift, in an attempt to keep the final scraps of his sanity in one piece. He makes forty two mimosas, thirty margaritas, and five moscow mules. He also makes five pitchers of ‘summer punch’ (bottom shelf vodka, the syrup from a jumbo can of cherries, and three cups of murky brown liquid from an unlabelled bottle Charlie found in the back of the keg room, which was presumably not piss, and possibly orange juice). Six plates ended up smashed. The bins outside are brimming with around three hundred avocado husks, according to the number on the empty delivery box. Mac, while stood by the door, received four phone numbers, missed three pick-up lines, and was given a single kiss on the cheek by a drunk guy with a beret and carefully sculpted five o’clock shadow.

Dionysian is a term he learnt in college and hasn’t used since - but if there was ever a time or place to resurrect something so pretentiously specific, he thinks it would be here in the aftermath. It’s three in the afternoon and the bar is a chaotic mess of brunch-related fallout, maybe even worse than the first time around: there’s stained glasses and crockery covering every available surface to the point where just looking at the deserted tables makes Dennis feel dirty. The whole fucking building makes him feel dirty.

A discarded maple syrup jug is lying on its side on one of the booths, slowly dripping its contents onto the leather and the floor. He can’t decide what he hates more: the fucking idiot who knocked it over, or the idea of willingly putting something that calorific and sticky into your body. God, people can be such fucking animals. Do they know how unhealthy that shit is? Do they care? The longer he stares at it the more it bothers him. The more it bothers him the more he can’t look away.

“Charlie,” Dennis says, evenly. “Can you get that shit off the leather before it dries?”

Charlie’s sweeping up crumbs a few feet away with a dustpan and brush. He looks up - first towards Dennis, then towards the booth.

“It’ll be easier to wipe when it’s dry, dude,” Charlie says. “Just - trust me, I know how this shit works.”

Dennis feels a muscle in his jaw start to jump.

“I asked you to do it now,” he says, a little harder than he intends - and Charlie starts scowling at him.

“Chill out. Jesus, I said I’d get to it -”

“I don’t want you to get to it,” Dennis says, “I want you to do it, and I want you to do it now.”

Dee groans, not lifting her head from the table she’s collapsed on.

“Both of you shut _up_ , I’ve got a migraine-”

“Oh, I’m so sorry, Dee,” Dennis snaps, “I’m sorry nobody’s being goddamn considerate enough for you, but we’re trying to clean the bar and you’ve done jackshit since we closed, so you can keep your nose out of this!”

Dee lifts her head - and she does, Dennis will admit, look incredibly under the weather, her eyes red and her cheeks sallow, her nostrils flared in a snarl - and Dennis realises, suddenly and with sickening clarity, that if he tries to take a single second more of this he’s going to end up hurting someone.

“Fuck you both,” he spits out - he drops the dishrag in his hand and shoves the glass he was holding back onto the bar, and then he stalks over to the keg room. Neither of them shout after him, and somehow that only manages to piss him off more.

The stone floor is subterranean and cool. Dennis drops down once he reaches a corner, huddles his knees up close to his chest and keeps his palms flat on the ground, eyes screwed shut. His fingers are prickling with something kinetic, something awful, but maybe if he keeps them pressed up against the cold concrete long enough, he’ll be able to drown it. Push it back down.

He hears the door swing open and shut. The sound of someone stepping inside the room.

“Get out,” Dennis mutters, without looking up.

It’s always a goddamn long shot, Dennis finds, getting him to listen. Getting him to leave. It’s like wiping honey off your hands - no matter what you do you’ll spend the next few hours haunted by the phantom feeling of something clinging to you. Mac’s either so blinded by his ego that he doesn’t listen to Dennis’ warning signs, or he’s stupid enough that he hears them and doesn’t care. Whichever one it is, this time around, he’s a pain in the ass, because he keeps walking forward.

“Mac,” Dennis repeats, slowly. “Get _out_.”

“You know who’ll have to clean it up if you make a mess in here?”

“Charlie,” Dennis snaps, “don’t go acting like you do shit for this place-”

“No,” Mac says, “me, because Charlie won’t fucking go near you when he thinks you’re about to deck him, so do both of us a goddamn favour and calm down.”

Dennis snarls at him, feeling his lip curl back. Mac reaches into his pocket, and when his hand reemerges he’s holding up a crumpled handful of twenties, a single fifty sat on top like a present.

“Is that -“ Dennis says, caught off guard, his fury momentarily forgotten. Mac’s mouth curls up at the edges, just slightly.

“Fresh from the register,” he says.

It’s jarring: rage and something softer existing in him at the same time. Dennis is furious, exhausted, every one of his senses overstimulated - Dennis is already thinking of what kind of wine they’ll be able to buy with that money, the kind of table they’ll be able to reserve.

“We’d need to leave now,” Dennis points out. He’s disgustingly sweaty from christ knows how many hours behind the bar, and there’s no way in hell he’s letting them go to monthly dinner in matching neckerchiefs. Mac nods, shifting on his feet.

“I figured,” he says, and he tucks the cash carefully back into his pocket as Dennis gets to his feet. The first few buttons of his shirt have come undone, and if Dennis looks close enough at the shadowed line of his collarbone, still half-hidden under his shirt, he can just about see a faint trail of dark bruises running across it.

There’s Dennis’ feelings for women, and there’s Dennis’ feelings for Mac. One is meant for the outside world and the other is only for him - and only under certain circumstances, because this thing between them often stays dormant for days and weeks at the time. Sometimes the signal goes dark for years. Dennis doesn’t know how to wake it. All he can do is wait for the moments when the rough edges of their relationship catch the light, softening and shifting into something new.

Dennis flexes his hands by his sides. They’re a little stiff from the chill, his palms especially, but they’re not burning anymore. As he walks over he catches Mac’s eyes flickering down briefly, glancing at Dennis’ mouth like he can’t help himself; it makes something in his chest twist.

“You ready to ditch?” Mac says. Dennis rolls his eyes.

“If you have to ask,” he mutters - Mac snorts out a laugh, bumping their shoulders together, and they slip quietly through the bar and out the back door, escaping down the alley and into the bright afternoon.

* * *

 

There are times when Dennis looks at Mac and gets caught up in him like a fly struggling through a web. The pink cupid’s bow curve of his top lip; the strong line of his jaw; the faint grey in his stubble, which really has no right making Dennis’s chest feel the way it does. There are also times when Mac will ask how to tie an apron, or stand in front of their bathroom mirror struggling with his shirt collar, and Dennis will wonder how the hell he’s made it this far intact.

“Jesus Christ,” he says, exasperated, putting down his compact, “hold still -”

“It’s not me, dude, honestly, I think a button’s come off in the wash,” Mac protests. His throat brushes up against Dennis’ knuckles as he speaks, the skin warm and soft, vibrating a little with the sound of Mac’s voice. The button issue takes Dennis about a second or so to fix, and he finds himself straightening the line of Mac’s collar afterwards, trying to smooth out the wrinkles running through his shirt.

“A solution to this,” he says, pushing his thumb over a particularly persistent crease, “would be you buying a goddamn formal shirt, for once in your life.”

“This is a formal shirt,” Mac says, frowning. Dennis sighs.

“It’s a polo,” he says, “it’s the colour of sand that’s been pissed on, just because you do the buttons up and wear a tie -”

“I like it,” Mac says, stubbornly.

“Yeah, I’ve noticed,” Dennis mutters, adjusting Mac’s collar one last time before picking the compact back up.

They make it to Guigino’s by eight - would’ve been half seven, but they got caught up in an argument about what counts as a button-up - and the table they reserved is gone but as luck would have it the maitre d’ leads them over to the wall of french windows and settles them there instead.

“Nice,” Mac says, appreciatively. “Window seat.”

“Mac, this might come as a shock to you,” Dennis says, “but there are windows back at the apartment. You can use them at any time.”

“The window‘s where the action is, bro,” Mac insists. “You can see the whole street from here. If a fight breaks out or the cops show up, we’ve got front row seats.”

“Gentlemen,” a voice says, cheerfully bland and weirdly familiar. “Can I offer you any - oh. It’s you.”

“Uh, yeah,” Dennis says, turning his head to raise his eyebrows at the waiter standing next to their table. “We’re regulars. You’ve probably seen us around. Can we get the wine list?”

“I have seen you around,” the waiter says. “We’ve been - your friend tied my -”

“Wine list, bozo,” Mac says. He makes a little shooing motion with one hand and the waiter, thin lipped and scowling, stalks off towards the kitchen.

Dennis looks up at Mac afterwards, expecting to meet his eyes and share a grin, but Mac’s attention has shifted between one moment and the next - he’s looking eagerly at the dark street outside, his absent fingers playing with a corner of the tablecloth. Dennis’ chest constricts with something rich and strange.

“Menus,” the waiter mutters, dropping two of them onto the table with a lacklustre attempt at enthusiasm and walking away like he can’t escape their orbit quick enough. Good riddance, really. Dennis has far more interesting things to focus on tonight.

They end up with a merlot that makes up more than half the bill and earns its place on it: it’s velvet dark and smells faintly of cherries, and it’s obscenely easy to drink. The bottle ends up being emptied down to the very last dregs and by the time it’s gone, just over an hour or so later, Dennis can feel a warm buzz settling under his skin. Mac’s telling him something, some bullshit story about an encounter he had at the Wawa a few days before; his hair is slowly working its way loose, getting softer and messier with every emphatic shake of his head, and his cheeks are flushed faintly pink from the warmth of the room, from the wine, from laughing.

Dennis wants to get on his knees. The instinct hits him with sudden and overwhelming intensity. Doesn’t even want Mac’s cock in his mouth, although that would be a welcome bonus: just wants to kneel and feel Mac’s fingers stroke and tug through his hair. Maybe sit there for a while and let the rest of the world fade into white noise.

“Don’t you think that’s weird, though?” Mac’s voice says, cutting through the fog in Dennis’ brain and drawing him back out into the light.

Dennis swallows, thickly.

“Sure,” he offers. Mac sits back in his chair with a huff.

“Dude! I knew it, I knew you weren’t listening.”

Dennis rolls his eyes.

“So tell me again, then, jesus christ,” he says, and Mac sighs like he’s never been so put-upon in his life, but he starts talking. Dennis half-listens this time - catches a couple of details about the Wawa incident, which apparently involved, among other things, a cat getting loose in the deli aisle and a spilled bottle of lube - but then Mac trails off mid-sentence, just watching him like something caught in a tidal pull.

“Hey, asshole. I’m listening this time,” Dennis says. He kicks Mac’s ankle under the table.

“You’re staring at me,” Mac says. His eyes are slightly wide with surprise, his mouth curving up at the corners.

Dennis feels oddly caught off-guard.

“Because we’re having a conversation,” he points out, one of his hands lifting up to scratch at his neck. “It’s - you know, it’s polite to look at someone when they’re -”

“You were staring _,_ ” Mac repeats. He’s grinning properly now, like Dennis has let him in on a secret.

Dennis scowls.

“I - no,” he says. Mac looks like he’s about to start crowing in the middle of the goddamn restaurant, so to take him down a notch Dennis adds, snappishly, “you’ve got sauce on your chin.”

Mac’s face falls, his brow furrowing as he reaches for his napkin. Before he has time to realise that it’s going to come away clean, Dennis grabs the surly waiter’s attention and asks him for the bill, studiously looking down at the tablecloth.

Mac being Mac, he’s still sore about it even after they’ve tugged on their coats and headed out into the night. In fact, he manages to be sore about it all the way home: shooting Dennis reproachful looks the whole time, and Dennis has a feeling that without the wine softening the edges of the world, it’d be annoying as shit. As it is, it’s still annoying as shit - but it’s also weirdly funny for a reason he can’t place. It makes him want to laugh a little; it makes him want to reach out and smooth his fingers over the pout of Mac’s lower lip.

“Mac,” he finds himself saying, just as Mac is about to push open the door to Dee’s building. Mac glances over at him, eyebrows raised.

“Yeah?”

Dennis licks his lips.

“Did you - tonight was good. Right?”

“It was _great,_  dude,” Mac says, nodding earnestly. “Kinda disappointed we didn’t see any action, ‘cause we really had the perfect vantage point, but-”

The rest of his sentence slips away into nothing as Dennis kisses him once, twice - ducking his head and coming in for a third that’s deeper and longer. Mac, to his credit, doesn’t hesitate, running his tongue over Dennis’ bottom lip and into his mouth, letting go of the door so his warm hands can rise up to cup Dennis’ face and hold him in place. Dennis leans into it, into him: Mac’s mouth is so plush and soft, up close. He reaches up with one hand and runs his thumb over Mac’s bottom lip, the way he’s been thinking about the whole fucking walk home - watches, enthralled, as Mac’s eyes flutter shut, as his cheeks stain faintly pink.  
  
“Dennis,” Mac says, strained and carefully controlled, and the vibration of his voice thrums through Dennis’ fingers.

You broke the rules first, Dennis thinks. And it’s true, Mac did: Mac’s the one who kissed him like that this morning. Dennis is just following his example. He leans in and presses his mouth to the space his thumb just touched and Mac makes a breathy mess of a sound, his hands taking hold of Dennis’ ass and pulling him in by the hips, fingers digging into the fabric of his jeans like he wants to slip them underneath.

“I think you should fuck me,” Dennis murmurs against his mouth. “Do you want that?”

“Jesus christ,” Mac breathes, sounding so fucking reverential that Dennis has to close his eyes, lean in to press his open mouth to Mac’s neck - he rocks his hips up, craving friction more than anything else in the world, and he runs his hands up into Mac’s hair and pulls sharply. It makes Mac’s breathing hitch.

“Do you want that?” Dennis says again, and he’s barely got the words out before Mac’s kissing him again, messy and slick, his breath hot on Dennis’ mouth.

“ _Yes_ ,” Mac says, “yeah, I - shit,” and he pulls himself away from Dennis just enough to shove open the door.

They make it into the apartment and onto the couch; or, to be precise, Dennis makes it to the couch and Mac half-collapses on top of him, straddling his hips and pushing him down until he’s practically lying flat against the cushions.

“I want,” he starts, but he forgets whatever it was he was going to say the second Mac’s mouth latches onto his neck, soothing the sting of the initial bite with the warmth of his tongue. Dennis curls his hips up in a lazy thrust and feels something inside start to come undone, because Mac’s got him pinned, now - his knees on either side of Dennis’ thighs and his hands on Dennis’ chest, keeping him down. Dennis doesn’t even try to push him off, just shudders at the heavy warmth of Mac’s body pressing on his. Mac shifts, moving one of his knees to press between Dennis’ thighs, up against the line of his cock - Dennis throws his head back, eyes screwed shut, and Mac’s mouth is there on his throat within seconds, kissing over the bruises he left the night before. He could leave more, if he wanted, Dennis would let him. He wants that. Constant traces of Mac on his skin. Even thinking about it makes his cock jerk up against his jeans.

Mac rolls his hips, coaxing Dennis into a slow, sloppy rhythm; Dennis ducks his head, biting down on Mac’s shoulder, eyes shut. There’s a low heat building in his stomach and he chases after it shamelessly, tilting his hips up and grinding his hard cock against Mac’s thigh, aware on some level that he’s getting loud, letting out little panting breaths that Mac seems to have a thing for judging by the way he shudders. His hands slip down from Dennis’ wrists and into the space between them, unbuttoning his jeans and helping tug them down, before finally stroking over the slick head of Dennis’ cock.

“Fuck,” Dennis breathes out, “fuck, yes, like that,” and Mac braces one arm on the couch next to Dennis’ head and kisses him slow and dirty, like he could do it for hours. His hand forms a loose fist that Dennis thrusts forward into, and Dennis curls his freed hands up into Mac’s hair and pulls, tangling his fingers in, losing himself in this: the slick-slide of Mac’s hand on his cock, the upwards grind of his hips, Mac’s mouth skating across Dennis’ cheek messily as his fingers gets clumsier, more frantic. He shifts his grip, the palm of his hand brushing right up over the head of Dennis’ cock, and Dennis’ is gone, just like that - arching off the couch as he comes over Mac’s hand, over his own stomach and thighs.

It wipes him out for a minute or so, aftershocks sending shudders through him that reach right down to his toes. When his eyes flicker open again he’s both glad and bitter that he’s forty and at a point where he needs more time than this to get hard again, because Mac’s still straddling him, sitting up on Dennis’ hips, and he’s licking the palm of his hand clean.

“Mac,” Dennis says, rasping and drawn out. Mac glances up at him, dark eyes hooded and blown dark, and it’s then that Dennis notices the way that Mac’s hips are shifting forward against his in tiny, restrained little thrusts, like he’s holding back - Mac’s so close but still fully clothed, he realises, eyeing the telltale swell in his jeans.

“Let me do it,” Dennis says nonsensically, pulling away and scrabbling gracelessly off the couch and onto the floor. “Let me - I want -”

Mac inhales a sharp, uneven breath as Dennis fumbles with the buckle of his belt and the zipper of his jeans. His hands settle in Dennis’ hair, carding through it, and a soft, pleased sound finds its way out of Dennis’ throat. He presses his mouth to the head, eyes flickering shut - and then the hands in his hair are pulling him back.

“You don’t -” Mac says, and he sounds wrecked already, his voice rough and low. Dennis noses mindlessly at Mac’s thighs, leaning closer again, and the hands in his hair tighten as if on reflex.

“I want to,” Dennis mutters, his mouth pressing impatiently against the skin of Mac’s navel. “I want to, let me, come on.”

Mac doesn’t say anything else. He just breathes shakily, in and out, and then he spreads his legs a little further as he guides Dennis’ head down, and it’s confirmation enough for Dennis to lick up the length of his cock before taking the head in his mouth, sucking shallowly. God, if Mac only knew the number of times Dennis has thought about this. Dreamed about it, even, woken up with his cock hard and leaking on his stomach and Mac’s name caught up in his mouth.

“Shit,” Mac breathes out, his hands cupping Dennis’ head. His cock is thick and heavy on Dennis’ tongue, a welcome weight that he swallows around - Dennis lets his throat relax, takes him in deeper and finds a rhythm that has Mac making breathless, cut-off little sounds, pulling Dennis’ head down and fucking into his mouth. Dennis’ eyes are wet, his cheeks are wet, his chin too - he moans lowly and Mac thrusts in harder, his hands pulling so tight on Dennis’ hair.

“Dennis,” he chants, feverish, “Dennis, Den, you need to-”

Dennis doesn’t let him pull away, drawing him in by the hips. They thrust up again and again under his fingers, rocking Mac’s cock into his mouth - he can feel it when Mac’s rhythm stutters, when the fingers in his hair twist into knots - he swallows around Mac as he comes and Mac makes a choked, breathless sound, one of his hands slipping to the back of Dennis’ neck and holding his head down.

He only pulls off when Mac starts to soften. He rests his head on Mac’s thigh, his eyes closed. His throat feels worked raw and his knees are aching but he doesn’t move, doesn’t want to. Mac’s fingers start carding through his hair again and he leans into it, a lazy warmth starting to sink over him like a blanket.

“Hey,” Mac says, low and soft.

“Mm,” Dennis mutters. He doesn’t bother looking up. The hand in his hair cups the back of his head, stroking gently.

It’s a long minute or so later when Mac coaxes him upright. He walks them both into the bathroom and over to the shower; Dennis registers his shirt being unbuttoned, Mac taking off his socks. Mac switching on the water and waiting for it to warm. A washcloth being wiped over his stomach and his thighs while Mac hums something that he recognises, eventually, as the Bryan Adams song they were arguing about that morning.

“I’m still right,” Dennis mumbles with his eyes closed, because he is. He’s not letting Mac forget that.

“Sure,” Mac says, agreeably - Dennis would flick him if he weren’t so tired. “Wash your face, dude."

They end up back on the couch half an hour or so later. The warm, sleepy haze still hasn’t lifted and Dennis’ inhibitions feel strangely absent. He decides to blame it on that when he gravitates towards Mac without really hesitating, wanting him close.

“We should go somewhere,” he announces, tracing lazy circles over Mac’s stomach with his fingers. Mac shifts beneath him, resettling their bodies - Dennis isn’t entirely sure how he’s comfortable, lying with his back propped up against one arm of the couch, Dennis sprawled out over him like a large and particularly demanding house cat - but he hasn’t pushed Dennis off yet.

“With what money, dude?”

“Frank’s money.”

“And you’re gonna talk Frank into buying five plane tickets how, exactly?”

“Not we as in the gang, moron,” Dennis says, the words slightly muffled against Mac’s shirt. “We as in us. You and me. We should go somewhere, I wanna go somewhere. Get out this fucking city for once.”

He hears it from where he’s pressed up against Mac’s chest, the little uptick in Mac’s heartbeat. He hears it: Mac licking his lips like they’ve all of a sudden gone dry.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Dennis insists, sleepily. He reaches up to poke Mac’s chest with one finger. “I want to see shit. Statue of Liberty, Time Square, wherever they filmed Lake Placid. That kind of thing.”

“Does Lake Placid count as a tourist attraction?” Mac asks, which is a statement so heinous it requires Dennis to sit upright so he can glare at Mac in full force. Mac, apparently, can sense the oncoming diatribe, because before Dennis has time to even open his mouth he’s launched into one of his own.

“No dong shot,” Mac protests, listing each point on his fingers, “none of the guys are bangable, the ending is a goddamn cop-out. If we’re doing tourist shit we’re going to the tower from Die Hard.”

Dennis wrinkles his nose.

“Where the hell would they put a dong shot in Lake Placid?”

“That’s my whole point!” Mac insists. “Dennis, every movie should at least have the _potential_ for a dong shot. If Lake Placid had a dong shot, it would be on the movie pile.”

“It is on the movie pile,” Dennis points out, “you just never want to watch it.”

“Yeah. Because there’s no dong shot.”

“Because we watched it at that shitty drive-in theatre on Halloween and it scared the shit out of you,” Dennis says, dryly, and Mac’s cheeks stain faintly pink.

“Where else do you wanna go?” he mutters, his fingers trailing slowly up Dennis’ spine, slipping under his shirt. It’s a distraction - he hates talking about the movie that gave him nightmares for a week - but Dennis decides to take the bait anyway.

“Cali,” he says, after a moment’s deliberation. Mac cocks his head at him.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Dennis confirms, leaning forward and kissing the corner of Mac’s bottom lip on impulse. “Let’s go there. Drink all the good fucking wine in the world.”

Mac laughs. He kisses him again. He’s only humouring him, Dennis knows that, but it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t _matter,_ Dennis feels too good to let Mac’s realism bring him down, riding the giddy high in his chest. His mind’s so fucking alive as it races from one idea to the next: he feels brilliant, he feels like something beautiful. He feels unstoppable.

This was part of the trade - this is what he gave away, in return for predictability. That’s what nobody seems to understand. The prescription gathering dust in the bathroom cabinet was as effective as it was indiscriminate. It took from him, good and bad.

Dennis knows what comes after this: the sudden slide off the cliff’s edge into something that’s looming dark and heavy underneath. He knows that it isn’t here yet. He knows that he wants to visit California and New York and wherever the hell Lake Placid was filmed, and he knows that he wants to do it with Mac - Mac, who’s dozing now underneath him, his hand settled on the small of Dennis’ back like it was made to fit that space, his long lashes splayed out over his cheeks.

He knows he wants to give Mac things. He knows that this is all right: the two of them lying like this, touching like this, talking the way that they were, because Mac’s the one who started it all. Dennis is only following by example.

It’s all right.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is......only four days late, as opposed to two weeks late, so uh. i guess?? that's progress??? thank u so, so much for sticking with me and this fic and its erratic update schedule - if u've left a comment, either here or on tumblr, ur a angel and i love u and this chapter honestly wouldn't be here without u. i'm getting gay in these end notes but that's only bc u guys are so nice
> 
> the next chapter should (hopefully) be posted in the next week or so, but if it isn't feel free to badger me on [tumblr!!](https://azirapha1e.tumblr.com)


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> cws for hyper-vigilance, internalised homophobia, discussion of mental health, and dennis being a lowkey bastard man.

Sunday morning, three days later, is a lazy and drawn out affair.

They’d slept in. Mostly because it’s the weekend, but also because they’d orchestrated a little scheme between them a few days before to snatch up all the late closing shifts - if they’re going to be at work, Dennis had explained to Mac, they should be doing something useful - like making out in the back room or the basement. The system had worked remarkably well (as expected, since Dennis was the one behind it), but last night was the third in a row they’d gotten home well past 2am. It’s starting to show.

“I want,” Mac mumbles into his pillow, face-down. “Coffee.”

“We’re all out,” Dennis says. He muffles a yawn into his elbow as he shrugs his dressing gown on.

“So go get some.”

“We have tea. Tea’s caffeinated.”

Mac groans.

“Just because,” Dennis insists, louder, “you have one goddamn taste-bud, and that taste-bud is sweet, that doesn’t mean I have to drag myself outside at the asscrack of dawn to indulge you.”

“It’s eleven thirty,” says Mac, scowling as he raises his head.

“Well then,” Dennis says. “Be a big boy, go get it yourself. I’m busy.”

“Doing what?”

“Busy,” Dennis repeats, utterly disinterested as he walks over to the kitchen without looking up from his phone. An exasperated sighs follows in his wake.

Dennis predicts that in about thirty, forty minutes, Mac is going to finish up his bitching and venture out into the world. Until that point comes he makes himself some tea (one of the ginger and honey sachets he’s been stealing from Dee’s kitchen cupboards) and settles in at the table. If he gave a shit about the news, he figures this would probably be the point in his day where he’d flick through a paper - as it is, Dennis takes a slow sip from his mug and wonders how difficult it will be to skive off work without anyone kicking up a fuss.

Mac flits around the apartment like a surly, overtired stormcloud; he spends twenty minutes stomping around in the bathroom before reemerging, his hair damp and his jeans low on his hips as he tugs a shirt on. Dennis would keep prodding at him, and there’s a part of him that wants to, but it’s never as satisfying when Mac’s all tired like this.

“I’m going to the store,” Mac mutters, grabbing his keys off the countertop. This means, roughly translated: _I am going to buy and consume something sweet and coffee-based, and then I’m going to buy more sweet and coffee-related products at the Wawa to clutter our kitchen with, because I am a pissbaby._

“Pick some chips up while you’re there, asshole,” Dennis calls after him. He gets a slammed front door and a raised middle finger in return.  


* * *

 

Dennis still misses the old apartment, but he’ll give Dee credit where it’s due: this bathroom is nicer than his and Mac’s ever was. There’s five different types of soap and scented candles under the sink and the hot water is blissfully reliable. He doesn’t have to smack the tap once, not even to get it started.

Heat creeps over his body as he lowers himself down into the tub, slinking into him like a cat falling asleep in a sunspot. There’s steam blooming over the bathroom mirror as Dennis shuts his eyes and settles in further, letting the water seep into his hair.

He isn’t fond of the colour scheme in here, that’s the only issue. Bathrooms, in his opinion, work best with neutral tones. Plus the coral tiling screams early-2000s reno job. Maybe in a couple of weeks he’ll drag Mac down to Home Depot and they can argue about it.

Dennis wouldn’t consider himself domestic, exactly - his last attempts at domesticity ended with a fire poker and a house stuffed with trash - but he is undeniably a creature of habit. His and Mac’s old apartment had been filled to the brim with both of them, so much so that it got a little suffocating, but the more he lets himself fill this place; his clothes in the closet and his shitty mugs on the shelves, the more he wants to keep doing it. There are traces of him and Mac everywhere now.

Speaking of which, they should get new sheets. Dee’s idea of an acceptable thread count is hideously low. Maybe they can get the hypoallergenic ones, that way he won’t end up sneezing every night and Mac can stop keeping water and Benadryl by the bed like Dennis is some sort of invalid - and since Mac can’t tell the difference between flat linens and fitted, Dennis should really be the one to pick them out. Mac can come to observe, so long as he agrees not to be a bitch about it.  
  
Intimacy grows in weird places. It’s like moss on a sidewalk: slow, irritating, and something acquired with time whether you want it or not. You’ll end up finding it in the rumpled sheets on a king size bed, or an empty coffee pot, or your clothes touching his in the laundry basket. Intimacy is weird, full stop, and Dennis has somehow amassed more of it than he knows what to do with.

The front door slams.

“Dude,” Mac’s voice says, drifting in from under the door. “Dennis, dude, holy _shit_ , you are not gonna believe which bitch I saw at the coffee store.”

Dennis closes his eyes. He sighs, long and loud.

“Which bitch did you see at the coffee store?”

“Margaret Mcpoyle.”

“ _Mcpoyle_?”

“Margaret Mcpoyle,” Mac confirms, slipping in and out of earshot as he moves around the kitchen, “was making coffee at the coffee store. It was so - she didn’t even talk to me, bro, I said my order and she just did that weird lip thing at me - and every time she used the milk steamer she moaned. Every time. Worst ten minutes of my life, easy.”

Dennis lets the cooling water start to drain out the tub. He stands up and reaches for the towel waiting on top of the laundry bin, wrapping it around his waist.

“So why didn’t you just go to the one down the road?”

“Dennis,” Mac says slowly, like he’s being unbearably dense. “They don’t do whipped cream at the one down the road.”

“You have the worst palate,” Dennis mutters, pushing open the bathroom door, “of anyone I’ve ever met, Christ on a cross,” and then he glances up at Mac, slightly startled, because Mac’s making a strangled kind of sound, sort of like he’s been kicked in the gut.

“Did she poison the milk or something?”

“I - no,” Mac says, faintly. “No. I’m good.”

Dennis squints at him. Mac scratches the back of his neck, eyes flicking down to the floor.

“I’m gonna get dressed,” Dennis says, cautiously. If Margaret Mcpoyle really has poisoned Mac, it better be something Mac can get over at home. Dennis isn’t risking any bodily fluids coming into contact with the Range Rover’s backseat.

Mac nods. He opens his mouth, like he’s thinking about saying something, and then he clears his throat and turns back to the unpacked groceries.

Dennis rolls his eyes and heads to their room, grabbing a fresh shirt and some jeans out the pile of clean laundry next to the closet. He folds the rest and spends five minutes or so putting it away, pausing for a moment when he unearths an old black t-shirt of Mac’s - at some point in the last two weeks it’s gained a small spattering of white dots over one shoulder that look suspiciously bleach-like. A Project Badass video gone wrong, apparently; Mac straight-up refused to show him the tape, claiming the raw footage was, in his own words, “too graphic”, but Charlie’s promised to get him a copy by pay day.

He picks it up by the collar and turns on his heel, hoping to catch Mac off-guard and wheedle out some information, and then he stills. Just stood there in the doorway.

Mac’s got some reality show on but he’s not watching it; chewing absently on the end of a pen as he reads through a pile of nondescript paperwork. A messy cowlick slips down in front of his forehead, and he pushes it back again without looking up.

When Dennis opens his mouth he’s intending to comment on the shirt - a dig, probably, or something appropriately sarcastic - but what slips out instead is something different altogether.

"How’d you know?"

He doesn’t think Mac’s heard him at first (or rather, he hopes Mac didn’t hear him, so he can pretend the question never made it out at all). But then Mac glances up, frowning like someone who isn’t entirely sure they’re in the right plane of reality, and he pins the nail deep in the coffin when he reaches for the remote and mutes the TV.

“Know what, dude?”

“That you were,” Dennis says, flicking one hand around like it’s going to make this easier to get out. “You know. That you were gay.”

There’s a long pause. Long enough, in fact, that Dennis has started counting down from ten, ready to dart out the front door if Mac hasn’t spoken by the time he’s finished, but then:

“The weird thing,” Mac begins, hesitantly, “is that I didn’t. Not for the longest time.”

Dennis’ confusion must show on his face ( _you made us rub oil on men_ , he thinks to himself,  _shirtless men, with an intimidating number of stomach muscles_ ), because Mac licks his lips, clearly thinking of how to phrase something, before he tries again.

“I knew… I knew that I liked certain guys,” he says, his eyes flicking up to meet Dennis’ briefly, “but even then, it would be like - god, he’s hot. Gay dudes are sinners but if I was gay I’d like him. It was that kind of, you know, that sort of -”

“Dissonance,” Dennis provides. Mac’s face brightens, and he nods.

“ _Exactly_ , dude,” he says. “A shitton of dissonance. Every day.”

“What changed?”

It comes out too quick. Mac either doesn’t notice, or doesn’t care to point it out, or both, because all he does is shrug.

“Nothing, I guess. World’s the same piece of shit it’s always been, all of us, we were on the same bullshit we’ve always been on, I just - I got tired. Lying’s tiring.”

Dennis swallows, thickly.

“Yeah,” he mutters.

The silence that follows is a strange one. It can’t seem to decide what it wants to be - tense or simple, easy or heavy. His mouth is dry. Mac’s still looking at him, his eyes running over Dennis’ body like he’s expecting to find something written on it, and it’s too much, way too much, so Dennis shuts his eyes and breathes in deep through his nose.

“Did you end up getting chips?” he says eventually, eyes still closed.

“Two types,” Mac says. He sounds like he’s moved closer. “‘Cause you were vague as shit.”

Dennis snorts out a laugh. He cracks an eye open to find Mac standing in front of him, his ungelled hair flopping around again on his forehead, and the strange tension in the air dissolves, just like that.

They sit side by side with windows blown wide open and sunlight streaming in, some godawful 2000’s pop album blaring obnoxiously loud through the speakers because Mac insisted it was his turn to pick the music. It’s too hot to sit on the couch so they’ve settled on the floor instead, eating chips and dip without the dip, and the world hasn’t changed all that much. Nothing’s shifted terribly or irrevocably. Nobody’s laughing. Well: okay, they are laughing, but it’s only him and Mac, and it’s not like they’re laughing at him.

Dennis has a nagging feeling that one of them should be angry about something. Mac at him, most likely - for asking probing questions, or for using all the hot water, or not checking in when Mac was at the store - all things that would usually provoke a fight, and all things that haven’t.  
  
Maybe the key is letting moments exist as they are. Not expecting them to be anything more or anything less than the sum of their parts. They could be fighting; they’re eating chips on the floor instead. Mac types something into the search bar on his phone and then the music changes - Green Day, slightly more bearable - as Dennis snags another chip out of the bag sitting between them, feeling tired and drained and a little like there’s something racing around his chest trying to find a way out.

It’s relieving. Dennis is never going to admit it to anyone (himself included, probably, after this moment’s been and gone) but it’s relieving to know that the possibility of being a guy who doesn’t want to be with women at all exists. That it’s something concrete, not just some vague, hazy hypothetical. It’s an experience that can be lived.

“Change songs,” he says, knocking one of his outstretched feet against Mac’s to get his attention. Mac frowns at him.

“I like this one,” he protests. That goddamn cowlick is still there, hanging down tauntingly - Dennis huffs out a sigh and reaches out to fix it himself, since Mac’s apparently too incompetent to figure it out.

“I don’t,” Dennis mutters, brushing the hair off Mac’s forehead, and he doesn’t understand why Mac’s smiling at him, his features a little blurred at such close distance, but he isn’t complaining.  


* * *

  
  
They end up sitting around all day, taking it in turns to pick albums. At some point late in the afternoon Mac decides to try making new cocktails for the brunch menu, and succeeds in dirtying every glass in the apartment and breaking three of them - Dennis eventually confiscates the orange juice he was using as a mixer and drinks it straight out the carton, frowning down at a cryptic crossword book he found on one of Dee’s bookshelves (there’s only one filled in, but that’s not the point: if Dee can do this shit, he should be able to do it. He intends to complete the whole thing out of spite).  
  
It’s -  
  
It’s really, really weird.  
  
Nothing’s gone wrong. Nobody’s shouting, or bleeding, or shouting and bleeding - nobody’s running off to do anything illegal or spectacularly dangerous. The most exciting thing that’s happened all day is Mac nicking his thumb while cutting up a peach to put in his ‘new and improved’ Old Fashioned. It feels like they’re existing in the same kind of calm you find in-between lightning strikes: something’s going to go wrong, eventually, Dennis knows that much, but he can’t tell when or how.  
  
“Shit,” Mac hisses, stumbling back from the counter. There’s red spreading on his clothes, on his hands - Dennis’ stomach plunges -  
  
“Shit,” Mac says again, sounding forlorn. He pushes a bottle of cranberry juice upright. “Least this is a black shirt, I guess.”  
  
Dennis doesn’t say anything. His pulse still feels off, skittering unsteadily. Mac, at least, is too distracted by cleaning up the spill to notice.  
  
“Be right back,” he calls over his shoulder, throwing the sodden pulp of kitchen towel into the bin and tugging off his shirt as he walks into the bathroom. It’s only when he closes the door that the tension in Dennis’ shoulders starts to seep away. He puts the crossword book down on the coffee table, his interest in it fading as quickly as it came.  
  
The world is explosive. Literally. You spend your time in it navigating between one chaotic detonation and the next, and you anchor yourself to places and people and hope the rope holds. Like that scene in Twister, where Helen Hunt and Bill Paxton tie themselves down to water pipes rather than trying to outrun the big tornado at the end - Dennis gets restless when the world goes silent, because the longer the quiet continues for the more likely he is to be caught unawares when the sirens start blaring. The waiting is almost as bad as the inevitable disaster itself.  
  
“Hey,” Mac says - appearing again from nowhere. Dennis jumps, slightly.  
  
“Hey,” he says, swiping a hand across his eyes and clearing his throat.  
  
“I feel sticky,” Mac mutters, flopping down on the couch next to him. Dennis huffs out a laugh without really meaning to.  
  
“And whose fault is that?”  
  
“You're not taking this seriously, Dennis.”  
  
“I’m taking it very seriously,” Dennis says. “You’re a grown man who can’t pour juice out a carton, that’s very serious -“  
  
“The bottle was defective,” Mac insists. “Must’ve been.”  
  
Dennis rolls his eyes as Mac reaches for the remote. The coiled tension in his chest hasn’t gone, but it’s quietened down - humming like distant thunder.  
  
There’s a Maury marathon playing that Mac eventually settles on. Dennis doesn’t complain: he likes laughing at misfortune that isn’t his own as much as the next guy, and the next few hours pass them by without incident, just him and Mac talking shit about nothing and splitting the second bag of chips between them. Somewhere in between the fourth or fifth episode, in the middle of a story involving a custody battle over beanie babies, Dennis turns to Mac with a quip ready to go and finds him leaning back against the couch cushions, bleary eyed, muffling a yawn into one hand. The evening light is peeking in faintly through the window, shifting into dusk.  
  
“One more,” Mac insists when he catches Dennis looking.  
  
“Mac,” Dennis begins, but Mac flicks him on the arm and gives him a look that says he doesn’t get a say in the matter. Naturally, he falls asleep ten minutes into the opening credits.  
  
Dennis has the good grace to take the bathroom first, since rousing Mac and forcing him into doing shit while he’s tired never ends well. He cleans up the fallout of Mac’s cocktail experiments afterwards, listening to the quiet thrum of the shower as it runs.  
  
“You coming?” Mac’s voice says from behind him. Dennis turns around and catches Mac yawning again as he walks over, hair a damp bird’s nest and cheeks faintly flushed. He’s wearing loose boxers and his grey riot shirt, and he wants to be touched, even if he won’t say it - Dennis can read in the slope of his shoulders, the restless tapping of his feet.  
  
“In a minute,” Dennis says. Mac makes a sleepy, agreeable sound, heading over to the bedroom.  
  
Dennis waits by the sink, motionless, until he hears the rustle of bedsheets, the sound of Mac’s breathing evening out. Then, he walks quietly into the bathroom, rubbing a hand over his eyes.  
  
Dee picks up on the third ring.

“What do you -“

“I think I’m gay,” Dennis blurts out, before she can say anything else. The silence that follows makes him want to choke.

A sigh crackles down the phone line.

“Yeah,” Dee says. “No shit.”

“I - no shit? Your _twin brother_ just came out to you, that’s all you have to say?”

“Dennis, you told me you were in love with Mac months ago,” Dee points out, exasperated. “You literally said that to me. Verbatim. Multiple times.”

“That is an entirely separate issue -” Dennis snaps, only to be hushed into silence before he can finish the rest of his sentence.

“Keep it down,” Dee hisses, “Jesus, oh my god, just - shut up for a second.”

A rustling sound echoes in the background of the call, like Dee’s shifting something soft around.

“Are you in bed?”

“I was,” Dee tells him, dryly, “And now I’m in the bathroom, because some moron decided to call me and start yelling at midnight.”

“Are you - you know, with -”

“For fuck’s sake, Dennis, where else d’you think I’ve been sleeping?”

“I don’t know!” Dennis protests. “I don’t care. Under the bridge, maybe, whatever - look, that reminds me, the bathroom tiling -”

“So that’s it, then?” Dee says. “With the gay thing? You’re just gonna drop that on me and move on?”

Dennis’ scowl deepens.

“You _want_ to talk about it?”

“No,” Dee snaps. Then, quieter: “I wanted to tell you I’m happy for you. Idiot.”

Dennis’ heart does a strange little jump, high in his chest. His breath stutters audibly, loud enough that Dee probably heard it, and he tries to find words but they won’t come, hiding away from him somewhere he can’t reach.

There’s a brief silence.

“Right,” Dee says, bracingly, a little too loud. “Okay. What shit were you saying about the bathroom tiles?”

“I want to replace them,” Dennis says, relieved to be back on familiar ground. “You can say no, and the landlord can say no, but I’m doing it anyway.”

“Do whatever,” Dee tells him, dismissively. “I got away with the hole in the wall thing. Bathroom tiles are a walk in the park compared to that shitshow.”

Dennis frowns again - and he’s still reeling from this strange, unnatural acquiescence when Dee says, a little hesitant: “I’m moving out, actually. Week on Monday.”

The world slows to a crawl and speeds back up again, all in the same minute.

“What,” Dennis says.

“Would’ve been sooner, but Annie’s landlord took some convincing after he heard me yelling at you -”

“When the fuck was that?” Dennis interrupts, affronted, his shock momentarily forgotten.

“The bar, genius,” Dee snaps. “When I was trying to be responsible and answer the phone and you waltzed in like Billy Elliot on crack.”

There’s a brief, tenuous pause.

“I mean,” Dennis says. “That still feels like your fault. There’s no point answering a call in the bar, Dee, it’s an alley-or-bust situation -”

“So I talked it over,” Dee says, loudly, “with the landlord guy, and once he realised I wasn’t actually a judgemental bitch he let me in on the lease. So, you know. Do whatever you want to the bathroom. It’s your bathroom.”

“You’re really serious about her,” Dennis says. “The Waitress.”

“Annie,” Dee says. “And yeah.”

“Never thought you’d be the one to settle down first.”

Dee snorts.

“Dennis, you have me beat by, like. Two decades.”

Dennis splutters, scrambling for a retort - Dee beats him to it.

“I’m not the only one standing in a bathroom right now,” she says, lightly. “Just, y’know. Putting it out there.”

Dennis glances out the open door. His eyes settle on the huddled shadow of Mac, lying asleep in the dark of their room.

“I don’t see what that has to do with anything,” he mutters. Dee laughs again, louder this time.

“Go to sleep,” she says. “Or don’t, whatever. I’m going back to bed, my toes are fucking freezing.”

“You and your weird goddamn limbs,” Dennis says, with no heat behind his words. Dee’s probably giving him the finger anyway, even if he can’t see it.

“Go _away_ , Dennis.”  
  
“Night,” Dennis says, quietly. The dial tone hums in his ear for a moment, and then it fades away into the dark.

He pads quietly across the carpet towards the bedroom, lifting a corner of the comforter and settling on the free side of the bed. Mac mumbles something unintelligible, shifting slightly with his eyes still closed. Dennis curls around him like something quiet and possessive and presses his cold toes between the warmth of Mac’s calves, one arm over Mac’s hips to keep him close, and sleep doesn’t find him for a long time.  


* * *

 

He wakes up first, on the side of the bed that’s slowly becoming his.

Mac always looks youngest when he sleeping - when he’s like this, specifically, his brow smoothed out and his mouth slightly parted. He’s always expressive, even in sleep. It feels like Mac’s features are caught in a never-ending stream of frowns and sly half-grins, his eyebrows raised or low, lips pouted or curled up in a snarl - Dennis has known him since he was a wild, coltish mess of a kid, and even now he’s still learning how to read him.

He allows himself to watch Mac for a minute or so longer. Then, he swings his legs over the side of the bed and walks into the living room, ready to put the coffee on - and it’s while he’s in the living room, padding barefoot across the floor, that he spies something heaped underneath the blanket on the hammock.  
  
Mac’s old corner of the room is still messy, even though they’ve practically moved themselves into the bedroom at this point. There’s an order to the chaos that Dennis knows he shouldn’t disturb if he wants to stay undetected. He picks his way carefully through the sea of discarded muscle tees and jeans covering the floor, not touching a thing until he reaches the hammock, where he slowly lifts the throw blanket up to expose -  
  
Leaflets?  
  
The whole thing is covered in them. The kind you see at a doctor’s office. And there are stacks of paper printouts underneath those. He picks up a random pile and starts flicking through.  
  
_Life With BPD_ , one of the leaflets says. _BPD And You: Supporting Loved Ones_ , says another. _Introduction to DBT. DBT Skills And Strategies. Coping With Post Traumatic Stress._ Someone has been through them all with a yellow highlighter. Mac’s scribbled handwriting is cramped in the margins.  
  
Dennis drops them. He backs away. He stumbles over a discarded sneaker and then he turns and walks stiffly to the kitchen with his fists clenched tight.

“Hey,” Mac says sleepily from the bedroom doorway. “Where’d you go?”

He pauses, seeming to zero on the scene in front of him: the leaflets, fluttering to the floor, the blanket tugged from the hammock. Dennis staring at him.

“Oh, shit,” he says, sounding far more awake. “Dennis -“

“You know, Mac,” Dennis says, mildly. “If I’m really that much of a goddamn burden to you, the door is right there.”

“What?”

“Avoiding me, throwing all that bullshit my way, this is what you were doing? Researching me like a goddamn freak show -“

“ _Dennis_ -“

“Get out,” Dennis hisses, “get the fuck out of this room, I don’t want to -“

“I got them from therapy,” Mac blurts out, sounding stricken and off-kilter. He’s staring at Dennis like he’s forgotten how to look away.

The silence that fills the room is so complete, it’s like standing in a vacuum.  
  
“I,” Dennis says. The air feels thick in his mouth. “What - what are you -“

“I go a lot,” Mac says. He’s talking rapidly now. Desperately fast, like he’s trying to fit the words in before a timer runs out. “Like, a lot-a lot, and when I started talking about you, Sam - Doctor Farley, I mean - he gave me those. So I could understand more better, ‘cause he’d explain shit out loud but I wouldn’t really get it, so -“

“Mac,” Dennis says. His ears are buzzing.

“And I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, dude, honestly, I just, I didn’t want it to turn into a thing, and I -“

“When?”

It comes out a little ragged, like the edges got caught on something sharp in his throat. Mac, once he realises Dennis isn’t about to storm out on him, seems to relax a little. He fiddles with the faded hem of his shirt, rocking on his heels.

“When did I start?” he says, tentatively.

Dennis nods.

“You remember Carmen? The chick Dee did the surrogate thing for?”

“Yeah,” Dennis says. It comes out slightly cracked; the word splitting apart into two syllables.

“I ran into her at the gym a little while ago. We started talking. I, uh. I maybe brought you up a couple of times. She gave me the number to the clinic and said it sounded like I needed to talk to someone.”

Dennis frowns.

“Do you just - what, discuss me with every random stranger you meet?”

“She’s not a stranger,” Mac protests. “And you’re kind of on my mind a lot, dude.”

The tight feeling in Dennis’ chest does something very strange: soaring up, then down, then up again.

“So I made an appointment,” Mac says, quietly. “Thinking, y’know, it’d be funny, we could laugh about it later, but it… turned out to be good, I think. For me. And then I kept going back.”

“You kept going back,” Dennis echoes, hollowly. “To a therapist.”

Mac nods.

“Yeah.”

“To talk about me.”

“And other stuff,” Mac insists. “Y’know, like - I talk about my dad, and God, and being gay, and why I get so weird around women. I don’t complain about you or anything, dude, I swear, I just… have a lot to get out.”

Here is a secret: Dennis hates Mac more than he’s ever hated anyone. Dennis hates him to the point where it feels like he’s drowning under the weight of it. Dennis hates him without knowing how, or why, or from where - Dennis hates him and it’s a fixed point, unchanging no matter what strange shapes their lives decide to take. He hates Mac so much he could chart himself home by it, reading his loathing like a cartographer looking up at the stars in the dark.

The silence between them hangs for a moment longer. Mac clears his throat, scruffs the floor with one of his socked feet, but if he was going to say anything Dennis beats him to it.  
  
“I lied.”  
  
Mac glances up at him with a frown.  
  
“I was lying,” Dennis repeats, struggling to keep his voice steady, “back when - when I told you I was sorry and I understood why you ignored me after the basement thing and all that shit, I lied, I don’t understand it. I’m never gonna be able to understand things like that. I’m not wired that way.”  
  
Mac’s reaction is so different than the one he was expecting that Dennis wonders, for a split-second, if this whole conversation’s been a dream.  
  
“Dude,” he says. “I know.”  
  
Dennis frowns.  
  
“What do you mean, you know?”

Mac rolls his eyes, stepping forward.  He’s close, now, stood in Dennis’ orbit. He doesn’t touch but Dennis does, reaching out and taking hold of Mac’s wrist in one hand, viper-like, clinging to it tight. Mac’s fingers find his, curling them together.

“You said sorry,” he says, quietly. “You didn’t understand why I wanted you to and then you went and did it anyway. That’s gotta count for something.”

They’re heading towards a new place. Either that or they’re already there, and Dennis just hasn’t realised until now. It feels strange. It feels frightening, in its own quiet way. Dennis has worked so hard to keep everything just the way it should be: his life, his body, the way the world sees him, the way he feels about Mac, and now it turns out that maybe he hasn’t done such a good job of that after all.

Except it doesn’t feel bad, standing close with him like this. It doesn’t feel bad when Dennis kisses him. Change is hell but whatever it is, this thing that has grown slowly between them, it’s not something unprecedented. It’s a slow-motion fall into inevitability. It’s change with a baseline Dennis has been hearing for years.

“What if I don’t fit?”

Mac’s brow furrows.

“Dennis -”

“I - if I took the meds. Spoke to someone, whatever. What if I don’t fit anymore?”

“Fit with what?”

“What do you think?” Dennis snaps out, voice breaking a little at the edges, because he can’t say it. Not out loud.

When they were very, very small - when they still shared birthday parties and a set of bunk beds in the same room - he and Dee used to watch Peter Pan a lot on the ancient behemoth of a VHS player in the living room, since it was the only movie the nanny could ever reliably get them to agree on. Dennis had liked it; liked it so much, in fact, that he ended up reading the book, after begging Barbara to get it for him. He kind of wishes he hadn’t, because it turns out Disney glossed over a lot of shit. The plot was convoluted and hard to follow, and Peter apparently used to ‘thin the ranks’ if he thought there were too many lost boys hanging around. Dennis had stopped reading it after that.

At the time, saddled with all the worldly experience that comes with being eight years old, he hadn’t been able to think of anything worse. The truth of the matter is that he still can’t. What, after all, could be more viscerally awful or painful than being told that the home you’ve built, regardless of how wild and lawless and strange, is no longer fit for the likes of you. You’ve changed too much for it. The space you once occupied is closed to you now, unless you can contort your body to fit in the gap.

“You’ve been on the meds for years, dude,” Mac points out. “Nobody’s made you leave yet. Look at it like this, has anyone kicked me out, just ‘cause I’m -“

“That’s different,” Dennis hisses. “You haven’t - you haven’t changed -“

“I’m out,” Mac says, quietly. “I’m talking to someone about my shit. I’m _happy_. I’m way different to who I was a year ago, dude. The guys, they’re all still here. You’re here.”

Dennis tugs on Mac’s hand where their fingers are interlocked, bringing him in so that when he speaks, Dennis can feel every word and pause and exhale on his skin. So they’re close enough that it doesn’t even feel like Mac’s speaking out loud at all, and that’s easier. That’s safe.

“I’ve changed,” Mac says, soft and low. “And I’m okay. I can’t, like - I can’t make you do it, or do it for you, but I swear it’s not gonna turn out the way you think. It was good for me, letting go of all that stuff. Maybe it could be good for you, too.”

He shifts a little, like he’s trying to figure out if he wants to keep talking. Then he says, in an uneven rush:

“Sam - he said he shouldn’t have left you hanging like that. The guy who gave you your prescription, I mean. Apparently the shit you’re taking is supposed to be used with therapy, and the dose needs to be reviewed a lot. So whoever that dick was, he did a pisspoor job of handling things.”

 _This isn’t your fault_ , he doesn’t say. Dennis is grateful for it. He doesn’t think it’s ever been that simple with him.

Silence hangs in the space between them. Dennis would try to fill it himself except he feels frozen, caught in the gleam of the headlights, and Mac seems to realise because he takes up the mantle instead.

“Are you angry?”

Dennis swallows.

“I don’t know.”

Mac drop his hand like he’s been burned. It makes something in his stomach twist.

“I can go out, if you -“

“Don’t,” Dennis says, a little too fast. “Don’t do that.”

There’s a lot more he wants to ask but the questions all slip away under his tongue, vague and unformed. They fall into another silence. Dennis lets himself look up for the first time since Mac started talking, and the expression on Mac’s face is comfortingly uncomplicated: he’s just watching quietly, chewing on his bottom lip. Waiting.

Dennis shuts his eyes, only for a moment. He exhales.

He wants Mac to stay. He wants time to think. He doesn’t really know what he wants at all.

“I was gonna tell you soon,” Mac says, quietly. “Swear on my life, bro. Swear on my mom’s life, on Charlie’s life -”

“Mac,” Dennis snaps, pinching the bridge of his nose. Mac just looks at him, his dark eyes tired and pleading - it feels like they send hooks into Dennis’ chest that catch on his ribs, pricking him with guilt.

“Mac,” he says again. He tries to keep it soft. Mac’s shoulders sink down, like the tension has drained out of them.

“I need,” he continues, carefully. “Some time.”

“I,” Mac says. “Okay. Okay - that’s good, that’s -“

He’s about to start talking about it again. Dennis can tell, even if Mac himself doesn’t realise it yet. Sometimes they miss each other by miles and sometimes there are moments like this, where one of them understands the other so well that they become a very specific kind of clairvoyant. Every so often Dennis can predict the future based on the way Mac fidgets, the way his eyes flick around a room.

As his arms fold around Mac’s neck Mac breathes out a soft, shaky exhale - he tilts his head eagerly, pressing their mouths together. He tastes faintly of toothpaste and the way he kisses is familiar the same way his voice is. This, at least, has stayed the same: Mac’s fingers are bunched up in the front of his shirt, gripping tight enough that wrinkles are going to be inevitable. When Dennis ducks his head slightly, kisses the corner of Mac’s mouth, just once, one of Mac’s hands lets go and settles on his shoulder instead, his thumb stroking slow patterns against Dennis’ shirt collar. The roar in Dennis’ ears fades out as his heartbeat slows.

“We could watch a movie?” Mac suggests when they break apart. His voice is carefully casual, like his tongue hadn’t just been in Dennis’ mouth, and it would be funny if Dennis weren’t so tired and he couldn’t feel Mac’s hands shaking. He was probably expecting a fight. Dennis can’t blame him, really, because he was too - one of their blunt, ugly confrontations, where things get thrown around and at least one of them ends up bleeding. They know how to hurt each other so intimately. Maybe that’s why he’s starting to get tired of it.

A movie sounds good. Something familiar that they’ve both watched a hundred times over - they can make the same jokes they always do and mock the same scenes. It’ll be easy without being mindless.  A quiet few hours on the couch next to Mac, shooting the shit. That’s what he wants.

“You’re not picking it,” he says, eventually. Mac huffs out a laugh, shoving at his chest.  


* * *

 

Naturally, because nothing in his life can ever be quiet or simple, watching a movie somehow turns into a gang-inclusive event.

“What about Jurassic Park?”

Mac’s sat in front of the DVD pile that he’s currently dissecting, holding up the battered case in one hand. He’s sorted them into six piles using a pattern that Dennis hasn’t bothered trying to discern, and so far his suggestions have ranged from uninspired (Predator, again) to straight-up horrendous (The Sound of Music, special features included).

“No,” Dennis says, flatly.

“I watched that dumb Facebook movie with you!” Mac protests. “That means it’s my turn to pick.”

“It isn’t _dumb_ , it’s - that was a biopic thriller -”

“Jurassic Park is thrilling,” Mac argues. “Jurassic Park is really thrilling, Dennis, I always feel thrilled when I watch Jurassic Park.”

“Isn’t that the dinosaur one?” Charlie says, walking in without knocking, Frank in tow. “I love that one.”

“Charlie loves that one!”

“We are not watching Jurassic Park,” Dennis snaps.

“Yeah, no, I’m with Dennis,” Dee says - trailing into the apartment and sitting on the free end of the couch, taking her hair down from its ponytail. “It’s corny. I want to watch something current.”

“Goldblum,” Mac says pointedly, raising his eyebrows like it’s supposed to mean something. Dennis wrinkles his nose and wonders if this is some sort of gay code he’s not privy to - Dee’s reaction half a second later proves his theory to be true.  
  
“More of a Laura Dern kind of gal,” she says, frowning thoughtfully. “Point taken, though. Shit. I forgot she was in it.”

“All right, three votes for Jurassic Park,” Charlie says. “Frank, you in?”

“I don't give a shit,” Frank calls from the kitchen. The microwave pings, and Dennis hears the door of it click open. The faint sour tang of burnt popcorn wafts over to the couch. “I’m here to eat, I’m here to sleep, I don’t give a rat’s ass what movie I do that in front of. You can watch porn if you want.”

“Why,” Dee says. “ _Why_ would you -“

“Something with tits,” Frank says, sagely. “A titty movie.”

“We are not watching porn together!” Dennis hisses.

Frank shrugs.

“Suit yourself,” he says. “I love fallin’ asleep to a good titty flick. Very restorative.”

“Frank,” Charlie says, wrinkling his nose as Frank walks over with the popcorn bowl, “buddy, you’ve got to stop talking about this, you’re ruining the ambience. I gotta have ambience if we’re watching the dinosaur movie.”

“Nice word,” Mac says, and he returns the high five Charlie offers him before getting on his knees and starting up the DVD player.

Here is a list of things Dennis hates about Jurassic Park: the subpar script, the setting, the soundtrack, Ian Malcolm’s sorry excuse for a shirt, the way Mac _looks_ at Ian Malcolm’s sorry excuse for a shirt, the lack of any dong being hung, and the fact that the only character he gives a shit about is a 20 foot tall animatronic T-Rex that just wants to exist on its own terms.

Here is a list of things Dennis doesn’t entirely hate about Jurassic Park: somewhere around the one hour mark Mac’s head slips onto his shoulder, his eyes closed and his nose pressing gently into Dennis’ neck.

It’s a cramped set-up. Dennis is sitting in between Dee and Mac, with Charlie on the floor leaning back against his legs and pinning him in place. Still, he just about manages it - slowly, slow enough that Mac stays asleep and everyone else stays distracted, he moves his arm up from his side and curls it loosely around Mac’s shoulders. Mac snuffles, sending his heartbeat skyrocketing, but he doesn’t wake. He shifts a little, curving his body towards Dennis. Then he keeps dozing like nothing’s changed at all.

Something on screen explodes. Dennis isn’t sure what, he isn’t looking. Mac’s dark hair is tickling his chin and he can feel Mac’s chest expand and fall with every slow, even breath he takes, and it’s strange, being this aware of someone else’s body, but not bad. It’s something he wants more of.

When the back of his neck prickles he glances up, turning his head as he does, and his eyes collide with Dee’s - she’s watching him silently with an expression he can’t parse. Dennis debates, just for a moment, tugging his arm back; maybe getting up to crack open the six pack sitting on the kitchen table, but what would the point be, exactly? Dee’s already seen him.

He stares back at her. Daring her to do something. Dee’s eyes flick to the arm curled around Mac and back up to Dennis’ face all in the same second - and then, just for the barest hint of a moment, Dennis swears he sees the corners of her mouth twitch up.

She turns back to the movie, reaching down to grab a handful of popcorn out of the bowl balanced on Charlie’s knees. One of Mac’s hands, sleepy and limp, finds its way onto Dennis’ thigh as he dozes. Dennis tightens his arm around Mac’s shoulders, minutely, and he doesn’t push him away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank u so, so much for reading my loves, and for sticking with me and this fic despite my utter inability to stick to a posting schedule!! i've had this chapter written for months, and i'm so glad i finally get to share it with u. hmu on [tumblr](https://azirapha1e.tumblr.com) if u like talkin abt deetress and dennis reynolds slowly getting better


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> cws for brief intrusive thoughts, internalised homophobia, discussion of mental health, and dennis reynolds, bastard man.

“You’re holding a revolt?”  
  
“Yes.”

“You two bastards are my own goddamn flesh and blood, and you’re holding _revolt?_ ”

“Let me make something perfectly clear to you,” Dennis says. “First of all, we are not your flesh and blood. I have no qualms about bringing you down. Second, this is the longest goddamn scheme we’ve ever done, and it’s stupid. It’s incredibly stupid, it’s unsustainable, and I’m getting jackshit from it except back pain and far more customer interaction than I’m comfortable with.”

Dee clears her throat.

“We the people -“

“Jesus Christ, Deandra -“

“We the people,” Dee says, through gritted teeth, “and proprietors of Paddy’s Pub, demand an end to the Paddy’s Pub Brunch Scheme and all its related ideas, effective immediately.”

“Go to hell,” Frank says flatly.

Dee growls low in her throat, slamming one palm down on the bar’s countertop.

“We are balls deep in this!” she snaps. “You're behind on the delivery payments, we’re all exhausted, Charlie’s eyebrows are still growing back -”

“One more week,” Frank insists. “Look, lemme explore our options, see where we are. Then I’ll think about it.”

“You can keep it going for as long as you goddamn want, but I’m done taking shifts! I’m done helping out! I’m _done -“_

“What Dee is saying,” Dennis interrupts, waving an irate hand in her direction, “is that this whole shitshow ends today. It’s over. End of discussion.”

Frank’s scowl is a furious, raging thing. His fist crashes down on the bar so hard that the bottle nearest to him rattles - Dennis takes a step back, expecting spittle, but before the argument can continue any further his phone buzzes in his pocket. Thank god.

“This is getting repetitive,” he warns over his shoulder, walking to the back office. “Dee, don’t be a bitch. Frank, no more brunch. Both of you shut up and leave me alone.”

“The hell d’you think you’re going?” Frank yells after him, but whatever he says next is muffled as the office door clicks shut.

Dennis exhales. He presses the palm of one hand over his eyes, just briefly. He answers the call.

“Hey. I’m, uh. I’m on Poplar Street. Near the library.”

“And?”

“And it’s raining,” Mac says. “Don’t be a dick.”

“Sometimes,” Dennis mutters, shrugging on the jacket he left hanging from the back of the desk chair, “I think you only like me for my car,” and he spends a few seconds waiting for Mac’s snort of laughter to echo down the phone line before realising it’s not going to happen at all.

“Are you coming?” Mac says, eventually. He sounds oddly young, almost lost. There’s a muffled shout from outside, and Dennis winces as something smashes against the door.

“Ten minutes,” he says, planning the easiest way to reach the back alley undetected - and before he has time to remind Mac that he doesn’t appreciate any excess water finding its way onto the range rover’s seats, Mac’s already hung up on him.  
  


* * *

 

The drive over is characterised by two things: the grating whine of the wipers as they try in vain to keep the windshield clear, and Dennis trying, also admittedly in vain, not to hold a grudge against Mac for one phone call.

The whole conversation’s nagging at him like a splinter. It would be easier, he decides, if he had a baseline to compare this to. Like one of those spot-the-difference games you find on the back of cereal boxes: Mac Mcdonald, one picture before his therapy session, one after. Circle the changes and remember them for next time, so they don’t catch you off-guard and bite you in the ass.

Dennis spots him ducked under a tree, head bowed, hands in his pockets. Mac looks up when he hears the idle of the engine and Dennis kind of resents him, just a bit, for having the nerve to look decent in a pair of blue pants he’s owned since ‘05 and a hoodie from roughly the same era. He unlocks the car doors anyway and jerks his head in Mac’s direction.

When Mac settles next to him, his hair fluffy and slightly wet, he smells like rain and someone who’s spent the past half hour on a damp city street. Dennis grimaces, ready for a biting remark involving water and the car’s upholstery, but there’s something about the slump of Mac’s shoulders that keeps him quiet.

Mac scrubs a hand over his face. He glances at Dennis; once, twice, like he’s waiting for something, and Dennis sighs before leaning across the centre console and pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. He’s intending for it to be a quick, perfunctory sort of thing, but Mac presses back, chasing Dennis’ mouth as he pulls away. He’s shaking a little. It’s probably from the rain.

“How’d it go?”

“Fine,” Mac mutters. He ducks his head and picks at a loose thread on his shirt. “How’s the bar?”

“A goddamn war zone,” Dennis says bitterly, flicking on his indicator and flipping off the Prius that pulls out suddenly in front of him. “Frank’s refusing to admit that the brunch shit is dead, Dee’s screeching about it - Christ even knows where Charlie is, at this point, I lost track of him about three hours ago.”

He chances a look at Mac out the corner of his eye and finds him staring blankly out the passenger-side window, his left leg bouncing up and down, up and down.

“Mac,” he says, faintly annoyed by the loss of attention. Mac glances back at him immediately, wide eyed.

It’s times like these when it’s a struggle not to pull on the thread of his devotion just to watch it unravel. Once you’ve pulled apart something delicate it’s impossible to rebuild the whole thing up the way it used to be - but destroying things for the sake of curiosity is a habit Dennis has been struggling to outgrow for the past four decades, and he’s never really managed it that well.

“Mac,” Dennis repeats. He tries to take the edge out of it this time, coaxing Mac into keeping his attention on him; Mac shifts in his seat again, avoiding his eyes.

“Can we go somewhere?”

Dennis pulls to a stop at a red light.

“What’re you -”

“I… wherever, dude. I just wanna go somewhere.”  
  
“At least give me something to go on,” Dennis argues. Mac huffs out a frustrated sigh.

“What are we near?”

Dennis frowns.

“Gin bar. That weird diner on the intersection. The shitty side of Fairmount Park.”  
  
“Fairmount,” Mac says. He drums his fingers on his bouncing thigh, and then he adds, quietly, “thanks.”

Dennis does not enjoy being out in nature at the best of times - the overcast sky and the drizzling rain sliding down the windshield aren’t exactly making this detour seem more appealing  - but Mac’s mouth is slanting down in a way that says he’s too tired for an argument. Dennis isn’t in the mood either, if he’s being honest with himself. Frank and Dee have made certain of that.

It’s a summer afternoon, technically, the final few days of August drawing to a close, but it sure as hell doesn’t feel like it. As he parks up he ducks his head into his jacket collar to keep the rain off his face. Dennis picks one of the emergency six-packs out the trunk, kept there for occasions like these, and Mac waits for him a few feet away, his arms crossed and shifting restlessly, tense and silent.

They end up following the kind of unofficial trail you can find in all public parks, if you look in the right corners. It’s narrow and smells faintly of smoke, the edges littered with crumpled cans and old lighters - the discarded remains of several generations’ worth of teenage angst. They walk slowly, the tree branches above them keeping the worst of the rain at bay, and Mac’s stood close enough that every so often their fingertips graze together.

Dennis cracks open a bottle each and tosses the caps out into nowhere. He hands one over to Mac wordlessly, who stares down at the rim for a second before taking a slow sip - and then Dennis takes a swig of his own, and waits.

“The psych thinks I have ADHD,” Mac mutters eventually, scuffing the leaf litter with the toe of one shoe.

Dennis raises his eyebrows.

“So?”

When Mac glances up at him his cheeks are slightly reddened, his features curling into a scowl.

“So, I - what’s that supposed to mean, Dennis -”

“Oh, come on,” Dennis says, raising his hands defensively. “Don’t get all - I just meant I could’ve told you that years ago.”

“Well, you didn’t,” Mac snaps. “He did.”  
  
There are a hundred bland, reassuring things that Dennis should probably be saying right now. A couple are sitting in his throat already, trying to crawl out. The trouble is that he doesn’t mean any of them, which Mac would know that no matter how much he tried to hide it, and lying to his face would only piss him off more.

It’s not just Mac. Dennis can’t always see it, but sometimes when they’re all together the edges start to flicker - and he catches glimpses, then. Charlie will flinch if you touch his left shoulder from behind; Dee’s palms have little half moon scars running along them that match the shape of her nails. Frank forgets faces and names about as often as he manages to remember them. There’s a reason they’ve tied themselves to one another so tightly.

It’s not just Mac. Maybe if he were someone different, he’d be able to say that out loud - and know how to say it in a way that wouldn’t end in Mac throwing a punch at him.

“Remember when we spent the night here?” he says eventually, deciding to test the waters. Mac snorts quietly around a sip of his beer.  
  
“Charlie’s still not forgiven you for that,” he says. “For the tent thing.”

Dennis frowns.

“We were _teenagers_ ,” he points out.

“Yeah, and his lifetime ban from 10th Street Hardware is still ticking,” says Mac, raising his eyebrows. “All ‘cause you talked him into stealing the -”

“I didn’t talk him into anything!”

“Aw, come on,” Mac says. “The only reason you wanted that goddamn thing is because you got scared shitless when you heard about the raccoons.”

“I wasn’t scared,” Dennis says, rolling his eyes. Mac’s remembering it all wrong. “Dee was scared. I was completely composed.”

“You’re a city boy, bro,” Mac informs him, in the kind of voice you’d use on a stubborn toddler. He pats Dennis on the shoulder. “It’s okay. You’re unfamiliar with the critters of the American wild. There’s no shame in inexperience.”

Dennis frowns.

“You’re a city boy,” he points out. “Mac, we’re both city boys, where are you even going with this argument?”

“I’m a _street smart_ city boy,” Mac insists, like this is supposed to mean anything at all.  
  
“Street smart,” Dennis repeats. Mac’s cheeks redden. He stares Dennis down stubbornly as he takes a swig from his beer.

“Yeah. I’m - listen, I know things -”

“You,” Dennis says, incredulous, laughing a little, “are street smart, is that what you’re trying to -”

There’s a rustle from behind them; the unmistakable sound of a throat being purposefully cleared. It’s loud enough that Dennis jumps.

“Hey there, fellas.”

The guy behind them turns out to be your average, unremarkable ex-army type in pretty much every way, except for two crucial details: the ranger’s uniform he’s wearing, and the walkie buzzing in his hand.

 _Shit_.

“Afternoon, officer,” Dennis says smoothly. He reaches up and tries to pat his hair down but the ranger leans forward - moving before Dennis even has a chance to start his apology spiel - and snatches the half empty bottle from his other hand, swiftly doing the same thing to Mac.

“You can’t be drinking here.”

“Well, we’re not drinking anymore,” Dennis points out. “Technically speaking. So… y’know. Crisis averted. You can go.”

The ranger sighs.

“I’m gonna need you to hand over the alcohol.”

“You already have the open ones, at least let us keep the rest of the pack,” Mac says, scowling. “Jesus.”

“It’s park policy.”

“It’s downright rude!” Dennis snaps. “We’re two law abiding citizens, trying to enjoy a public park, and then you show up all high and mighty and start jabbering at us? It’s - you know what, Mac, let’s go. I’m done with this.”

“Sir, this is _park policy._ You and your friend aren’t going anywhere until I say you can.”

The ranger goes off on a lecture - something about wildlife, respecting the landscape, whatever - and Dennis flicks his eyes over to Mac, only to find him already looking back. Dennis raises his eyebrows and tilts his head to the left, indicating towards the treeline. Mac, just like he did when they were kids, goes and gives the plan away: his poker face slipping into a grin, giddy and wide.

He takes a slow step backwards, and then another; Dennis matches him pace for pace -

“Later, bitch,” Mac calls out.

And they bolt.

It’s practically impossible to get traction, thanks to the rain and the mud and the mess of rotting leaves, but the sound of a distant, indignant, “hey!” spurs both of them on. Dennis’ lungs are burning like every cigarette he’s ever smoked has chosen this moment to come back and bite him in the ass, and his shoes are gonna be ruined, his jeans too - he’s soaked and half-frozen by the time they stumble to a halt several minutes later, ducking down hurriedly to crouch behind a noticeboard. Dennis skids forward on his heel and Mac somehow manages to throw an arm out, catching him just as he’s about to trip, and Dennis clings to it for balance as he tries to take a steady breath.

“Is he gone?” Mac whispers. He is horrendously loud.

“That was _horrendously_ loud,” Dennis hisses, swatting him on the arm. Mac stifles a laugh that comes out as a weird, wheezing snort, and the sound of it is so stupid that Dennis finds himself trying to choke down laughter too.

“Who put that fucking stick up his ass, anyway?” he mutters, leaning over into Mac’s space to brush a leaf out his hair. “We were being classy about it. It would’ve been different with cans, maybe, but -“

“Dennis,” Mac says quietly, and Dennis has two rants in mind, depending on what he says next: the first of which explaining why cans have more white trash potential than bottles, and the second relating to the amount of foliage Mac has collected in his hair. He doesn’t get to start either of them, though - because Mac’s knee slips between his legs, curling their bodies closer together as he kisses down Dennis’ jaw, the centre of his bottom lip. His hands are clenched tight in his collar like he thinks Dennis is about to slip away, and when Dennis pulls back he makes a quiet, frustrated sound, chasing his mouth like he did before.

There’s a closing shift they should head off to, if they want to maintain a veneer of giving a shit. Dennis’ stomach twists.

They skive: Frank gets pissed, Dee gets pissed - Charlie, wherever he is, presumably get pissed. If Frank’s feeling particularly vindictive there’s a chance he’ll take a cut from their paychecks. They go, and Mac sinks back into that strange restless space Dennis has managed to lure him out of, and after work he’ll stay out and not come back to the apartment until the early hours, smelling of vomit and alcohol and night air.

“We’ve got more beer at home,” Dennis says. Mac’s face does something complicated, several emotions passing through him at once. For half a second, Dennis thinks he’s going to protest - and then, carefully, slowly, in a way that feels strangely similar to when a cat sits on you of its own free will, Mac lowers his head to Dennis’ chest and rests his forehead there.

“Yeah,” he mutters. “All right.”

Dennis thinks about how it would feel, settling a hand on his back, keeping him close. He presses his nose carefully into Mac’s hair, eyes squeezed shut, and his fists stay clenched by his sides.  
  


* * *

 

Mac disappears into the bathroom once they make it back to the apartment. Left to his own devices, Dennis takes it upon himself to clean up the off-smelling pile of plates heaped up in the sink before scouring through the cupboards, eventually coming up with an unopened pack of pasta and a tin of tomatoes. They’re both covered in a light layer of dust.

Of the two of them, Dennis is technically the better cook - that isn’t even bragging, that’s just how it goes. The trouble lies in that he’s rarely got the energy or the will to bother with it. Mac, comparatively, is half-decent with a recipe and subpar without; utterly abysmal if he tries putting his own spin of something. He is, however, consistent. When Dennis’ will to live fucks off into the sunset every few months, Mac is there to take over dinner duty - providing frozen pizzas, instant ramen, and copious amounts of takeout - until it decides to come back. However long that takes.

It’s been a while, this time around. Dennis feels like his last encounter with a fresh vegetable was sometimes in mid-February.

“Are you making that pasta thing?” Mac’s voice says from behind him.

“Pomodoro,” Dennis corrects, rolling his eyes. “Yeah.”

He turns around, wiping his hands on a dish towel, only to find Mac staring at him with his brow furrowed. His hair’s still damp from the shower and his arms are folded, almost protectively, around his middle.

“Why are you doing this?”

Dennis frowns.

“What?”

“Being,” Mac begins. He stops, running a hand through his hair, and then gestures awkwardly to the ingredients on the countertop and the clean plates drying next to the sink, like that explains anything at all.

“Being nice,” he finishes, lamely - and the sickening heaviness in Dennis’ chest, missing all day, settles back in like it never really left. He throws the dish towel back onto the counter.

“What, you’d like it better if I were pissed at you?”

“Maybe!” Mac says, waving his hands wildly, “I don’t _know_ , Dennis -“

There’s something ugly lurking between them under the surface. Dennis really doesn’t want to drag it up to the light.

“I’m not being nice,” he says stiffly. “I’m being considerate.”

“Aren’t they -“

“Just,” Dennis snaps, “leave it. Leave it alone. All right?”

Mac doesn’t look convinced. Dennis rolls his eyes up to the ceiling, feeling a muscle in his jaw start to jump.

“I’m - okay, look. Put it this way. If I were manipulating you - which, to be clear, I’m not - you wouldn’t notice. Trust me.”

Mac takes a step back, his face falling and his eyes going hard. Dennis winces.

“Oh, Jesus Christ, you know what I mean -“

“Honestly, dude? _None_ of what you’re saying right now is making sense to me. At all.”

Dennis grits his teeth and pushes down the urge to shout - clenches his fists and lets them go again, inhales slowly through his nose.

 _I don’t know how to do this_ , is what he really wants to say. _I don’t know why I want to do these things for you. I don’t know why I want to touch you. I don’t know. Stop asking._

Anger, of all his emotions, makes the most sense. It’s annoying, overwhelming, inconvenient: as conspicuous as flashing neon in the dark. He can’t avoid it, even when he wants to. It’s these smaller impulses, the quieter ones, that screw him over. They flicker through him at lightspeed - the coiling in his stomach when he sees Mac’s face fall, the strange clenching in his chest when Mac reaches for him in his sleep. Half the things Dennis feels he doesn’t even know how to name. Whatever it is he’s feeling right now, watching Mac sway forward a little on his feet, eyes dull and rimmed by dark shadows, he wishes he knew how to exorcise it; how to pour water on the sparks and diffuse the fight that’s clawing its way towards them.

“Come on,” he mutters, snatching hold of Mac’s hand and tugging him over towards the bedroom. It’s a testament to how exhausted he is that Mac doesn’t even try to push back, just lets himself be led away - he settles on the edge of the mattress while Dennis fiddles with the blinds. He doesn’t move after he’s tugged them down the window, hyper-aware of Mac behind him.

He clears his throat.

“I’ll come get you,” he says, carefully. “When, uh. When dinner’s done. So.”

Mac’s still watching him when he turns around. His brow is furrowed, like his half-asleep brain is trying stubbornly to figure something out. Dennis makes a shooing sort of motion with his hands.

“Go on. You look tired as shit, I’m getting a headache just looking at you.”

“Sorry,” Mac mumbles. He muffles a yawn into his fist before lying down fully on the sheets, curling onto his side.

There’s a part of Dennis that wants to walk over again and touch him, just to make sure he’s solid and whole. He is - obviously, logically - but he’s thinking about it anyway, about Mac staying out too late and fucking himself over in one way or another. He could get punched in the gut by an angry drunk. He could stumble into the road and get hit by a car. Is Dennis still his emergency contact? He should check. He needs to be sure.

“You alright?”

Dennis starts. Mac’s looking at him, confused and bleary eyed. He’s sat up, the sheets pooled around his thighs, and he’s all soft edges in this light. His tousled hair is still a little damp from his shower, one cheek faintly pink from where it’s been resting on the pillow.

“C’mere,” Mac says, patting the spot next to him on the mattress. “You gotta rest too, dude. You’ve been looking way too pale.”

“I’m not _pale_ ,” Dennis mutters, even as he crosses the floor and sits gingerly on the edge of the bed. “And I can’t, I need to finish the - what are you doing?”

“Tactical positioning.” Mac’s sat himself upright and curled his arms around Dennis from behind, nosing at his neck. “Try moving now, bitch.”

Dennis probably could. There are principles to follow, however, when it comes to this kind of thing. When he sighs he can feel Mac start grinning against his neck.

“Ten minutes.”

Mac hums sleepily.

“Yeah, whatever,” he says, tugging Dennis down with insistent hands. He ducks his head into the curve of Dennis’ neck and slides one leg over his calves, lays an arm across his chest, like he’s trying to keep him in place - and then, with the same predictable ease Dennis has been envying for years, his breathing evens out and slows.

In his defence, he tries his best to stay awake. He stares resolutely up at the ceiling, counting water stains, waiting for the right moment to gather his strength and nudge Mac off to the side. Mac mumbles something in his sleep, the fingers on Dennis’ chest twitching - Dennis, running on instinct more than anything else, reaches up and takes his hand, squeezing gently. Mac stills.

Ten minutes, Dennis reminds himself as his eyes slip shut. Just ten.  
  


* * *

 

Inevitably, the room is dark by the time he wakes up.

Light from the living room is spilling in from under the door in a faint yellow glow. Dennis blinks slowly as he adjusts to the dim. Mac’s lying close to him, still sleeping - and Dennis figures out what woke him pretty quickly when he feels Mac’s hips rock lazily against his, morning wood (or evening, technically) pressed up against his thigh.

Dennis shifts onto his side. It’s enough to make Mac stir. He squints in the dark for a second before he seems to notice Dennis, and when he does he pushes forward to kiss him - missing his mark slightly, his lips skimming over Dennis’ jaw.

“Sorry,” he says, sounding dazed. “I was dreaming.”

“Yeah?” Dennis murmurs, kissing the corner of his mouth. Mac breathes out with a soft, needy little sound, rutting half-hard against Dennis’ thigh again - and it’s Mac’s fault entirely, Dennis decides, that they end up making out on the pillows. It’s completely on him. Dennis’ hands stray to his ass and Mac shudders, pressing back on his fingers even through the fabric of his sweatpants. Dennis decides to trace faint circles on the back of Mac’s thighs, testing the theory that’s forming in his mind - Mac confirms it when he moans quietly, grinding back against his hand.

He pulls back from Dennis unsteadily, tugging his shirt off over his head, kicking off his boxers. Dennis follows his lead, not bothering to fold his clothes afterwards - any time spent not touching Mac feels like time wasted. He straddles Mac’s waist with his palms flat on his chest, smoothing over his pecs and up to his shoulders, then back again. Mac’s looking up at him with his lips parted, his pupils blown.

“Have you done this before?” he asks, sounding a little breathless, and that’s -

That’s a fair point.

This has always been the line. It has been since college, when one of the guys he used to mess around with asked him to top and Dennis ended up throwing him out in the early hours of the morning, because lying facedown on a mattress and letting things happen to your body under the hands of someone faceless, that’s not - it isn’t gay. That’s just sex. From that perspective there’s enough plausible deniability to last you for years. On the other side of the equation, there’s none.

He swallows.

“I,” he says. “To myself, yeah, but not…”

The look Mac’s giving him somehow manages to be soft and smug, all at once.

“So I’m your first, then,” he says, grinning up at Dennis in a way that makes him groan and press his face in Mac’s neck, biting at his jaw in reproach. Mac has the gall to laugh, stroking a hand through his hair.

“Don’t say it like that,” Dennis mutters, feeling his cheeks go warm. “C’mon -”

“I’m your _first,_ Dennis,” Mac repeats, emphatic and delighted, a little awed. Dennis reaches out, not looking up, to flick him on the arm. Mac catches his hand and presses his lips to each one of Dennis’ fingers in turn.

“I can talk you through it,” Mac murmurs against his palm, and he isn’t teasing now. This is something else entirely. Dennis glances up at last, his cheeks still burning, and Mac leans forward to kiss him on the corner of his mouth.

“If that’s what you want,” he says, softly. “Or we could -”

“That’s what I want.” It comes out too fast, it gives too much away, and it takes all Dennis’ self control to stop his cheeks from flushing again.

“Nice,” Mac says, grinning. Dennis wrinkles his nose, pausing with his hands mid-stroke on Mac’s thighs.

“Are you kidding me?”

“What?”

“Nice,” Dennis says. “That’s it, that’s what you’re going with. That’s your line.”

“It is nice, dude.” Mac lets his legs fall a little further apart. “It’s - you know what, if you’re gonna be a smartass about it -”

“I’m not being a smartass,” Dennis mutters, leaning down to kiss a patch of freckles on his inner thigh. Mac’s breathing catches. “I’m just saying that’s a terrible line.”

“So you’re being a smartass,” Mac says. His hands curl into Dennis’ hair.

“Let’s agree to disagree,” Dennis suggests, stroking his fingers over the place where Mac’s thighs meet his hips. “And come back to this later.”

“Dick,” Mac says, and then he pushes himself up and tugs Dennis along with him, settling in his lap with his legs straddled over one of Dennis’ thighs. The heaviness of his body is the opposite of a bad thing: he’s a warm, solid weight anchoring Dennis down. Mac slings his arms over his shoulders, kissing him slowly - Dennis’ hands curl into his hair, wanting to keep him right where he is. Mac makes a soft, contented sound against his mouth.

“Lean back,” he instructs, and then he’s gone for a moment - but he leaves Dennis with a nice view, his ass on full show as he reaches under the bed to grab the lube. Dennis thinks idly about how it would feel to lay Mac down on the sheets and eat him out, and then he stops thinking about it and starts thinking about toe knives and old laundry and statistics for the last Phillies season.

Mac settles back on him again. Dennis runs his hands up and down Mac’s bare thighs, stroking slowly, and when Mac ducks his head down to kiss him he grinds his hips down too, measured and deliberate, working his cock against Dennis’ thigh. After half a torturous minute he presses the lube into Dennis’ hand, his breathing uneven.

Dennis leans against the headboard and strokes one hand down Mac’s back, down to his hole. He presses a finger inside him and Mac hides his head in the curve of Dennis’ neck with a shudder.

“All right?”

“S’just cold,” Mac says, nosing at Dennis’ collarbone. Dennis’ skin prickles. “Start with two.”

He goes slow. Slower than he would on himself. The room’s quiet except for them, and every new hitch and catch in Mac’s breathing as Dennis’ fingers slip deeper feels like something valuable. something worth keeping hold of. He curls them sightly, switching the angle, and Mac muffles a moan into the crook of his neck - he grinds down on Dennis’ hand, and Dennis laughs breathlessly and kisses him, free hand palming Mac’s cheek and nudging his hips forwards.

“Goddamn,” Mac mutters, low and bitten out.

“Yeah,” Dennis says dazedly, not entirely sure what he’s agreeing to - the word just sort of happens, slipping out on an exhale. Mac cups his face in his hands and slides his tongue over Dennis’ bottom lip, into Dennis mouth, sitting up a little so he can ride Dennis’ fingers easier - he’s panting, Dennis can feel it more than hear it. The hand on Mac’s jaw trails down between them, and he traces the weight of Mac’s cock with one careful fingernail. Mac’s half hard, not quite full, so Dennis strokes over the head of his own dick first, thrusting lazily into his fist and closing his eyes as pleasure curls low through his stomach, precome slicking his fingers.

He takes Mac in hand, brushing over the underside of his cock lightly enough that Mac shudders. He rocks back on Dennis’ fingers and up into his loose fist and lets out a low moan, grinding down harder. Dennis slides a third finger inside - he’s planning to draw it out, to tease, but Mac shifts on his lap, braces himself with arms that wrap firmly around Dennis’ shoulders - and then he’s fucking himself in earnest, hips working smoothly, and Dennis is lost, something inside knocked off-kilter _,_ because nobody’s ever looked like this. Mac’s bare freckled skin, gleaming faintly with sweat; Mac’s flushed mouth, his closed eyes, the way he looks like this is the only place he could ever want to be. Dennis would do anything to keep him looking like that. Dennis would give him anything.

Mac sighs as he presses forward, sliding his tongue over Dennis’ bottom lip and opening his mouth, letting Dennis in deeper - and then he’s tugging Dennis closer gently, leaning back, spreading his legs further.

“Pass me the lube,” Mac murmurs. Dennis does, his hands shaking a little - Mac unwinds his hands from Dennis’’ hair and flips the cap before tossing it somewhere else, and then he settles one hand on Dennis’ hip and the other on his cock, sliding over the shaft and wiping his thumb over the head. Mac jerks him off slick and lazy and Dennis loses himself a little, panting as he thrusts into his fist faster and harder - and just before he can slip towards coming, Mac’s hands move away. His fingers are gripping Dennis’ shoulder, slipping down to his stomach.

Dennis swallows. Mac moves his hand again, cupping his jaw and running his thumb over his cheekbone.

“Hey,” he murmurs. Dennis rolls his eyes. He’s never known anyone who manages to fuss over shit like this quite as earnestly as Mac.

“I’m fine,” he insists, impatiently. “Come _on_.”

“Just checkin’,” Mac says. He leans up to nose at Dennis’ nose, kisses the corner of his mouth. He draws Dennis in close between his parted legs with one ankle running over Dennis’ ass and the back of his thighs. Dennis lets it happen, his forearms resting on the sheets on either side of Mac’s head.

His eyes flicker shut as Dennis presses inside. His breathing goes a little ragged and his chest moves rapidly - and Dennis doesn’t kiss him so much as just breathes against him, trying to tread water, trying to stay still. It feels like years, like forever, and Mac still hisses between his teeth when Dennis shifts.

“Are you -“

“Keep going,” Mac mutters, tilting his hips up a little to encourage him deeper. “Just - s’been a while, that’s all.”

He’s done this before, Dennis remembers, and it’s not - it’s not a fault, but it makes a pang of something strange rise up in his chest. The idea of someone else touching Mac the way he is right now.

There’s a bead of sweat trailing down Mac’s neck. Dennis rocks into him again and Mac gasps, soft and low, and it trails into a moan as Dennis ducks his head and licks over his nipple, sucking gently and teasing with his teeth before kissing away the sweat that’s reached his collarbone.

“Is this,” Dennis says - and then from underneath him Mac moves his hips, rolling them up firmly, and the rest of his words get lost in the back of his throat.

“ _Mac_.”

It isn’t a whine, by any means. Mac treats it like it is, shushing him, pressing kisses to his cheeks.

“What?”

“Is this…” Dennis swallows. “Does it feel -“

Mac grins, but it doesn’t feel like he’s laughing at him. He reaches up and strokes his knuckles over Dennis’ cheek and he murmurs, “you’re doing good, Den.”

It’s not immediate but it’s sure as hell not gradual, the way the nervous tension in Dennis’ body slips away. Mac’s voice is low and familiar, his hands are warm. It’s just Mac. No performance, no tapes - there’s only this. Mac’s fingers slide over his spine, tracing slow circles there.

“You want me to tell you what to do?”

Dennis exhales. He doesn’t trust himself to say the right thing, or the wrong thing, or say anything coherently at all; he settles for closing his eyes and leaning into the hand on his cheek as he nods, just once.

Mac leans in to kiss him before re-settling them a little. He sits up slowly, so he’s closer to being in Dennis’ lap again than lying down, and Dennis decides instantly that he likes this more. It makes kissing easier, for one thing, and leaves Mac’s arms free to wrap loosely around his neck.

“How’s that?”

“Better,” Dennis mutters. His voice is muffled into Mac’s neck as he nips at his throat, not quite hard enough to leave a mark. Mac coaxes him into looking up again with two fingers tilted under his chin and kisses him on the mouth, hot and open-mouthed - and then he grinds down deliberately on Dennis’ cock, and the movement hits Dennis like a lit match being thrown on oil.

“Oh, shit,” he pants against Mac’s mouth, and he feels it when Mac laughs, and he definitely feels it when Mac moves again, finding a rhythm and riding him lazily. Dennis rocks his hips up and something about the change in angle makes Mac shudder, little moans escaping him on every downwards thrust.

“Like that,” Mac breathes out, “just like that, like that, that’s perfect,” and Dennis’ hands are running over his thighs of their own accord, watching them work smoothly. He wants to do this right - he wants Mac to never do this with anyone else but him. He wants this for himself.

Mac’s arms are around his neck again; he’s moving faster, shifting up and dropping down on Dennis’ cock, and his own is brushing over and over against Dennis stomach as he does, precome making a mess of it. Dennis slides his fingers over the head, letting Mac rut into his hand - Mac tips his head back as he moans and Dennis leans forward, his hips and his fingers working in the same messy rhythm, biting at his flushed throat. Mac tastes of sweat and salt, his skin is hot to the touch. One of his hands slips onto the back of Dennis’ neck, pressing his head down and holding him in place as Dennis kisses over the mark he’s made, soothing the sting with his tongue.

He’s barely aware that he’s panting Mac’s name - not until Mac hushes him, kissing him and sliding his tongue into Dennis’ mouth. Dennis thrusts up, hard, and he can feel Mac’s hole tighten around his cock as Mac’s breathing hitches; he bites down on Mac’s bottom lip and does it again, and again, rolling his hips until Mac is shuddering against him, ducking his head into the hollow of Dennis’ neck. Dennis slides his thumb over the slick head of Mac’s cock and Mac fingers are scratching at his back as he hauls him in even closer - Dennis can feel his thighs shaking, probably from the effort of holding himself up in Dennis’ lap for this long, and it happens like that, without warning - heavy heat flooding down through him as he rocks into him again; Mac kisses him through it, stroking his hair, babbling things that Dennis can barely hear.

“Dennis,” Mac breathes, “Dennis, Den,” and his arms are folded around Dennis’ neck as he rides him messily, artlessly - he keens when Dennis pulls out, and again when Dennis slips two fingers in him, still kissing him and barely missing a beat.

He looks beautiful. It hits him like a punch to the gut: Mac’s flushed cheeks, his sweat-damp hair and the bitten curve of his mouth, the way his eyelashes are resting on his cheeks as he grinds on Dennis’ fingers; the gasp he makes when Dennis crooks his them up and brushes up against the place inside him that leaves Mac shaking, the way it tails off into a moan. He looks like something that could make Dennis’ heart clench and split apart. One of Mac’s hands slips off his shoulders, reaches down into the space between them - he strokes his cock once, twice, curving his wrist at the end - and when he comes Dennis kisses him again, curling his fingers up a final time and feeling it when Mac makes a muffled, choked cry against his mouth, spilling hot over his fingers.

He goes almost limp in Dennis’ arms. His mouth is lax and clumsy but Dennis kisses him anyway, kisses his bottom lip, his nose, his forehead, his cheeks. There are words in his throat that desperately want to make themselves heard but he pushes them down - even here, clutching Mac to him and still half-lost in the post orgasm haze, he knows not to be that stupid.

Mac makes a soft, breathless sort of sound when Dennis pulls his fingers out. Dennis strokes his hip in apology, letting Mac slump even closer to him, taking his weight.

“Jesus christ,” Mac mumbles, his voice muffled into Dennis’ chest.

“I,” Dennis says eloquently. He huffs out a faint, exhausted laugh. “Yeah.”

They stay sat like that for a minute or so. Dennis feels a little dizzy as his pulse settles back down. Mac reaches out and strokes a hand through Dennis’ hair in a way that would usually have Dennis scowling at him and slapping at his fingers, but he’s too exhausted to care.

Mac takes his sweet time getting to his feet. He looks like a mess - even more so than Dennis does, probably, considering Dennis doesn’t have come on his thighs or as many bruises on his neck.

“I’m gonna clean up,” Mac says, yawning into his fist. Dennis nods, closing his eyes. He leans forward before Mac can start walking away, pressing his forehead against Mac’s hip - and Mac jumps, just slightly, like it’s something he wasn’t expecting, but he doesn’t push Dennis back.

“I should finish dinner,” Dennis mutters eventually, ducking away from Mac to wipe his stomach clean with a corner of the sheets. Mac frowns at him - nine times out of ten, he’s the one who ends up changing them - but there’s reluctant fondness underneath, tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Dennis waits until he hears the low hum of the shower start up to unearth the notebook from his jacket. He spends a long time staring down at the blank page - which are starting to be in short supply now, what with the amount of shit he’s written - but he’s too tired to even begin to name what he’s feeling, let alone put it into words, so he ends up counting the remaining pages instead.

Six. Twelve if he left his principles at the door and went double-sided. There’s a water stain on the cover and the spine is starting to get bent out of shape from spending so long crammed into a pocket - but all this is survivable, because there’s only one bullet point left.

He should do it next week, then, he decides. The latter half, so he has time to finish up and refine and get things set out the way he wants - and he’ll need to figure out a plan to get Mac where he wants, for that matter. He can always push the date forwards if he needs to, through the chances of that being necessary are incredibly low. Dennis is very good at what he does.

Mac’s approaching footsteps catch him by surprise. He doesn’t have time to tuck the notebook away and settles for flipping it shut casually as Mac walks into the room, his towel slung low over his hips.

“Thought you were cooking?” Mac says, glancing over at him as he tugs on a clean shirt. He’s scowling, clearly frustrated at being left bereft of pasta, but his tousled hair and bare feet ruin the effect. Dennis rolls his eyes.

“One of us has to keep track of the groceries,” he says, getting up to slide the notebook back into his jacket pocket. Mac mutters something under his breath, adjusting his shirt and drying his hair with the towel - but when Dennis kisses him as he walks past he ducks his head and smiles down at the floor, his cheeks soft and full.

Yeah, Dennis is going to blow Julia Stiles out the fucking water. It’s going to be the performance of his life.

 

* * *

 

It’s surprisingly easy to coax Mac out of the bedroom again for dinner. He gets up with minimal bitching, settling into his usual spot on the couch as they eat side by side with a rerun of Real Housewives playing on the tv - and, despite Dennis’ exasperated glances, he insists on providing a running commentary on who’s who, and who’s fucking who, and who was fucked over by whom. He rubs Dennis’ ankles absently when Dennis props his feet up on his thighs, curling around Mac like a house cat in the sun.

“Bed,” Dennis mutters, stretching lazily as the credits roll. Mac nods, half-asleep already, running his hands up to Dennis’ shins and back again.

They drag themselves over to the bathroom. It’s rare, Dennis has found, to experience a pleasurable 3am - it’s an hour often reserved for insomnia, or drunkenness, or hopelessness, or at its worst all three - but this one isn’t particularly terrible. Mac’s elbow knocks into his as they brush their teeth over the sink, and he peels the plastic off a new tube of cherry lip balm after Dennis spends two minutes cursing at it and picking at the edges.

He sighs in relief when he collapses on his side of the bed ten minutes later. Mac follows his lead, smelling faintly of toothpaste and soap, curling around him and sleepily wrapping an arm over Dennis’ hips. He clings unashamedly as he pulls Dennis in closer, and Dennis would judge him for it except he’s the one letting it happen.

He’s never known what to do with this kind of vulnerability. Not his own and not anyone else’s. When you spend enough time around the same people you start to assume you know every intricacy of them, but in truth you only ever know the parts they’re willing to show. The closer he gets to Mac, the more he recognises the strange softness that sits alongside the violence inside him; a tenderness that Mac doesn’t seem to know how to control or what to do with. His redeeming qualities aren’t so much traits as they are echoes. Flickers of a person he could’ve been if luck and probability had a heart.

When do you become what you are? The tipping point is different for everyone, and present in everyone, but not everyone has crossed it. You don’t get a say in when it happens - whether it’s a gradual tidal pull or a rogue wave that hits you all at once - but it’s an irreversible thing. Some people rise in the face of it and their names are shown on book covers and talk shows, and some people don’t, and most people, probably, exist somewhere in between, slowly learning to grow, but at this point Dennis knows better than to hope they’re most people.

Mac shifts in his sleep, curling closer until he’s pressed up against Dennis’ back. A car passes on the street below. The momentary gleam of its headlights arcs across the wall before slipping away into the shadows. Dennis leans back against the solid warmth of Mac’s chest behind him and imagines being out at this time of night: the cool air and the harsh street lights and the muddy pink haze of the sky overhead, half-darkness hanging over the city like a bruise.

He reaches sleepily for the corner of the sheets that’s slipped down from his shoulder, tugging it back up. He closes his eyes, and stops thinking anything at all.  
  


* * *

 

_It’s the fireworks show. The big one that happens by the waterfront every New Year’s Eve. They’re sat on the rooftop of the empty office block with the unlocked fire escape - it’s going to get torn down in three years’ time. Dennis isn’t sure how he knows that. There’s a thermos of hot apple cider being passed between them, and they’re young enough that being this drunk is still a novelty that feels like fun._

_“This year sucked ass,” Mac mutters._

_Dennis rolls his eyes. He doesn’t move his head from Mac’s lap._

_“Every year sucks ass before you hit twenty-one,” he points out, but when Mac looks down at him he doesn’t look sixteen at all. He’s too tall, too broad in the shoulders, and there’s a beard curving down over his jawline._

_“Yeah, I know,” he says. “I just… I thought this year might be it.”_

_“Be what?”_

_“You know what I mean,” Mac tells him, scowling. Dennis doesn’t know what he means - he didn’t then, and he doesn’t now - but he laughs anyway, and Mac’s cheeks are flushed from the alcohol and the cold. There’s a rumbling from the crowd down below, faint but growing louder with every second - ten, nine, eight…_

_“We didn’t kiss,” Dennis says, frowning. “Did we?”_

_“Dude, sit up,” Mac says. “You’re gonna miss the fireworks.”_

_It’s a struggle but he manages it, Mac’s hand settled on his back to keep him steady. They’re so close, all of sudden, and Mac’s smiling at him in that way he does when he thinks Dennis isn’t going to remember it the morning after._

_“We didn’t kiss,” Dennis insists. Mac doesn’t seem to hear him._

_Three, the crowd chants. Two. One…_

_He tastes sweet like cider and faintly of the weed they were smoking before. His lips are dry. He pushes Dennis away within half a second, his eyes wide, and Dennis swallows and says, “sorry.”_

_Doesn’t count if it’s New Years, Mac is supposed to say. Isn’t that how this went? It doesn’t count. Don’t worry about it. We’re just drunk._

_“Dennis,” Mac murmurs instead. He sounds older now and more familiar for it. He cups Dennis’ face in his hands and leans in to kiss him again. They’re going off-script and the fireworks are roaring above them, flaming and victorious, louder, louder, louder -_  


* * *

  
Someone, or something, is hammering so hard on the bedroom door that it’s shaking on its hinges. Dennis groans, flopping a hand out to one side - and when he hits something warm and shirt-covered he clenches his hand there tightly before rolling over and burying his face in Mac’s chest

“Dennis,” Mac mumbles, poking at his shoulder.

“No,” Dennis says. His voice kind of gets lost in Mac’s shirt, so it ends up sounding more like a muffled, displeased ‘nuhn’.

“You’re closest,” says Mac, bordering on a whine, so Dennis decides to take the initiative, sliding off Mac’s chest and ducking his head under the comforter before tugging it around himself tightly.

“No.”

“Goddamnit,” Mac groans. “Dude, c’mon -”

The hammering starts up again.

“Jesus Christ,” Mac mutters, sounding incredibly put-upon, and then Dennis feels the mattress shift as Mac climbs off it, hears the sound of his footsteps padding over to the bedroom door.

“Dee, I swear to - wait, Charlie?”

“Sup,” Charlie’s voice says. He sounds far too bright and alert for someone awake before 10am.

“Why are you here?” Mac says. “How did you - bro, did you climb the gutter? ‘Cause you’ve gotta stop doing that, you’re gonna fall -”

“Nah, I didn’t,” Charlie says. “I mean, I could if I wanted to, ‘cause there’s nothing wrong with a good gutter climb to get you where you wanna go - but, uh. No. I came in through the front door. We’re helping Dee pack her shit up.”

Dennis doesn’t need to see Mac to know the expression that’s on his face: wrinkled nose, raised eyebrows.

“In return for what?”

“Ten bucks and pizza at the bar. You in?”

“Don’t give them a choice, Charlie!” Dee’s voice says, faint and irritated.

“Nah, it’s just Mac,” Charlie calls back. “Speaking of, dude, you know where Dennis is? Moving this stuff’s gonna be a five person job, Dee has a ton of crap lying around.”

“Uh,” Mac says. Dennis tightens his grip on the blankets as he hears Mac shuffling around in the doorway, like he thinks he can hide the bed from view.

“Wait, is that Dennis? Is Dennis in the bed?”

Mac clears his throat.

“Dennis isn’t -“

“Dennis,” Charlie shouts, “dude, are you in the bed?”

Dennis winces.

“Yes,” he hisses, briefly lifting his head up from under the sanctuary of the blankets and glaring over at the doorway. “Now lower your goddamn voice, for chrissakes.”

“Cool,” Charlie says, apparently satisfied with his detective work. “Okay, just checking.”

A minute or so later, when Mac’s talked him into shutting the door and giving the two of them ten minutes of grace to get dressed, Dennis feels the mattress dip.

“What if,” Dennis mutters, without opening his eyes, “we threw them out.”

“We’d be down twenty bucks, dude.” A hand settles in Dennis’ hair, carding through it slowly. “And we’d miss out on pizza. Plus, c’mon, you know Dee would just screech through the door ‘til we let her back in."

Dennis groans into the pillow - allows himself one final moment of softness and sleep tinged warmth - and then he drags himself upright, eyeing Mac sourly. Mac leans down and brushes a kiss to his mouth, soft and dry, and a little of the tension building up in Dennis’ shoulders seeps away.

Mac, as usual, is dressed before him - mostly because Mac’s version of “dressed for the occasion” is a pair of sweatpants from the floor and the shirt he fell asleep in. Dennis would mock him for it, but the fact remains that he doesn’t bother Dennis to hurry up before he slips out the bedroom door, and he promises to have some coffee waiting for him in the kitchen, and it’s impudent, in Dennis’ opinion, to look a gift-horse in the mouth, even if it is dressed like a college student with a hangover.

He shortens his usual routine a little, but he still takes his time. Everything feels steadier once his foundation is on and he’s checked his cheeks for any uneven patches with the compact he keeps in the bedside table: steady enough that he manages not to flinch when he opens the bedroom door and is met by the familiar, acrid smell of something burning.

“If any of you start a fire in this apartment,” he warns, making a beeline for the mug of coffee on the counter and eyeing the smoking toaster suspiciously, “I can and will hide your body somewhere undiscoverable to authorities.”

“Mac did it,” Charlie says. “Murder him if you’re gonna murder anyone, dude.”

He sounds kind of distracted, and when Dennis looks over he can see why - he’s absorbed in carefully peeling the last of the icing off a pop tart, eating it as he goes. When he’s done he passes the whole thing, freshly peeled, over to Mac, who shrugs and eats it without complaint.

Dennis wrinkles his nose. He carefully prepares a bowl of cereal that he eats stood up in the corner of the room, a safe distance away from either of them.

“Okay, idiots. Listen up,” Dee says, walking into the kitchen and wiping her hands on her jeans. She stops in the doorway and clicks her fingers at Mac and Charlie until they look over at her - Dennis, as is his natural sibling-given right, ignores the whole situation, and elects to focus on his cereal instead.

“I’m dividing you into teams. One team per room, at an average of one room per hour, means we can be in and out of this place by twelve.”

“Sweet,” Charlie says appreciatively. “All right, where are Frank and I at?”

“You and Frank are not anywhere,” Dee says. “You and _Mac_ , however, are gonna be dealing with the living room.”

“Me and Frank work good together,” Charlie protests, frowning. “We wanted to do the bathroom cabinet together, Dee, that’s half the reason we agreed to help you in the first place.”

“Yeah, I know,” Dee says, “you talked about it the whole drive over, it was incredibly weird, that’s why I’m splitting you up. Dennis and Frank are doing the bathroom.”

“Oh, c’mon -”

“Tough tits,” says Dee, sternly. “I’m the moving czar, Charlie. My decisions are final.”

“So I have to spend an hour in Frank’s company?” Dennis says. “Alone?”

“And in return, you get my apartment,” Dee tells him, whirling around with a glare, her voice as airy as it is deadly. “Isn’t that a steal?”

 _Not really,_ Dennis wants to say, _considering you could absolutely do it instead of me,_ but Mac is giving him a look behind Dee’s back that’s half-exasperated, half-pleading, and - well.

“Whatever,” Dennis mutters, shoving his empty bowl on the counter. “Let’s get this over with already.”

He find Frank stood in front of the bathroom cabinet, the doors already opened wide, diligently sorting through and pocketing the ramshackle collection of painkillers Dee keeps in an old ashtray. Dennis decides this isn’t an argument worth having and settles on the floor with his back pressed up against the bath, proceeding to sort the plastic tub of lost-and-found makeup into two piles: anything cheap or out of date goes with Dee, anything promising or expensive stays with him.

“How much of this shit is Deandra’s?” Frank says, squinting at a bottle of toner water and shaking it a little. Dennis rolls his eyes and holds his hand out - Frank throws the bottle over, and Dennis puts it neatly on his pile.

“The top half,” he says. “And some of the crap in the make-up box, but that doesn’t concern you.”

Frank grunts in affirmation, tucking a blister pack of something into his bulging pockets. He picks up the bottle behind it, squinting at the label.

“Your name’s on this,” he comments - unscrewing the cap and, for reasons known only to himself, taking a long sniff. Dennis’ heartbeat jumps uncomfortably in his throat.

“Stop touching shit and just pack,” he snaps. “Jesus christ.”

Frank eyes the bottle suspiciously.

“Are you off those quack pills?”

Dennis looks down intently at the mascara in his hand. The brush is entirely dried out - Dee’s pile, then.

“So you’re not eatin’,” Frank says sourly, listing each item off on his fingers. “You’re not taking anything for that god hole thing, you’re skiving off work -”

“First of all,” Dennis snaps, “quit the melodrama, it’s a bad look for you. Second, you are incredibly late to this party - yes, I had a tough few months a little while back, but naturally a man like myself is never down for long and I nipped the whole thing in the bud, so shut up and _drop it,_ Frank.”

He’s breathing heavily, he notices. He rolls his shoulders and flexes his fingers, easing the tension out of them, and goes back to sorting through the make-up box.

“And not that it’s any of your goddamn business,” he mutters, “but I’m waiting ‘til we divide up the brunch money so I’ll have the cash to get my prescription switched up a little.”

“How much?”

Dennis looks up, frowning. He wonders for a second if he’s misheard - but, no, Frank’s looking at him expectantly, clearly waiting for an answer.

“Four hundred bucks,” he says.

Frank takes off his left shoe - revealing a very grey, very odorous sock - and lifts up the insole. Dennis squints down at it.

“What the hell are you -“

“I do not want you flipping out and murdering me in my sleep,” Frank says sternly, waving a limp, sticky looking wad of hundreds in Dennis’ direction. “That would be bad for me and bad for business, we’ve had too many dead bitches in the bar as it is. I am not becoming a dead bitch because of you, Dennis.”

“I’m not touching anything that’s been near your feet all day,” Dennis retorts.

“They’re clean,” Frank says, insistently. “Look, Charlie pours bleach in my shoes every night to kill the bugs. These babies are practically sterile.”

“You have bugs in your shoes?”

“Not after Charlie’s put the bleach in,” says Frank.

Dennis sighs.

“Wrap it in something,” he says, pinching the bridge of his nose. Frank picks up one of the plastic sandwich bags strewn around in the medicine cabinet and puts the cash inside - Dennis takes it, gingerly, and pockets it.

“You spend that on booze,” Frank says warningly, “and I’ll know. And I’ll find you.”

“Yeah, sure you will,” Dennis mutters. He stands up, pushing the make-up box to one side, and opens the cupboard under the sink so he can pull Dee’s towels out onto the floor. “Put your fucking shoe back on and help me fold these.”

 

* * *

 

Nine sweaty, ugly hours later, long after twelve has been and gone, Dennis finds himself slumped in a booth at the bar and pressed up against Mac’s side as they wait for the pizza delivery to show.

There’s a heated discussion going on - something about olives and sea kelp, which Dennis has entirely given up on following - and as Mac gesticulates wildly at Charlie he moves his shoulder just enough that Dennis can’t rest his head there anymore. It’s very terrible.

“Watch it,” Dennis mutters.

“Sorry, dude,” Mac says, and puts his arm back down on the table. Dennis huffs, and goes back to his original position.

“Olives aren’t from kelp,” Mac insists, turning back to Charlie. “I can’t believe we’re still having this conversation, they’re not from -“

“They don’t _come_ from kelp,” Charlie says. “They’re _harvested_ from kelp. You’re not listening to me. You know how - okay, you know the kelp with, like, bubbles in it, that you can pop -“

“Charlie -“

“Olives grow in there, dude! I’m telling you.”

“I’ve never found any olives in kelp,” Mac says, skeptically.

“Because the shit you find on the beach isn’t ripe,” Charlie points out. “The ripe stuff is still in the ocean. Look, let me make this simple for you - if olives don’t grow in kelp, where do they grow?"

“I,” Mac says. He pauses, sounding like he’s searching for an answer, and then he finishes, hesitantly: “bushes?”

“And when have you ever seen an olive bush?"

There’s a short, pointed silence.

“Oh, shit,” Mac says.

Charlie spreads his arms wide and whoops, victorious.

“I told you, bro! I _told_ you.”

“What did you tell him?” Dee says, sliding into the booth next to Charlie.

“Dee, did you know olives come from kelp?” Mac says, and Dennis watches as Dee cycles rapidly through several expressions, before settling on a frown.

“Olives come from trees,” she says slowly. Charlie snorts.

“Oh, they come from trees,” he mocks, rolling his eyes. “Dee, where have you ever seen an olive tree, c’mon.”

“Greece,” Dee says, instantly. “Italy. The entire Mediterranean.”

“No,” Mac insists. “No, it’s kelp. Charlie says it’s kelp, I... olive trees do sound kinda familiar, actually -“

“Dude! Don’t switch sides on me!”

Dennis sighs, sitting up for a moment to steal a sip of Mac’s beer and settling back down against him afterwards, closing his eyes. Mac’s ankles knock gently against his under the table. He isn’t entirely sure how long he dozes for, but it’s long enough that when Mac nudges him awake he can hear Dee arguing with the delivery guy by the door.

“I paid on the app,” Dee insists.

“You didn’t,” the driver says, flatly.

“No, I did,” Dee says. “I’m ninety percent sure I did.”

“Your total’s thirty five dollars.”

“I already paid!”

“She already paid,” Dennis calls out, rubbing a hand over his eyes.

“But I -“

“She already paid, buddy,” Mac says.

“Just - ma’am, _listen_ , your total is -“

“Oh my god,” Dee snaps, snatching the stack of boxes out his hands and slamming the door. Immediately, the bar is filled with the sounds of someone hammering on it.

“Can I tell you guys something?” Charlie says. “It’s gonna bug me, having to eat with that guy yapping away. It really is.”

“Oh, completely agree,” Dee says. Dennis nods, wincing as the shouting outside starts to increase in shrillness and volume.

“Back office?” he offers.

They traipse over towards the other side of the bar, pizza in tow. The yelling and knocking grows fainter and fainter, eventually inaudible once the office door’s been closed. Frank is slumped in the desk chair, deep in sleep - Charlie prods him awake with the toe of one grubby sneaker until he sits up with a snort.

“Move,” Dee says, brandishing a bag of garlic breadsticks under his nose. “I want to put some music on, I refuse to listening to all four of you chewing at once.”

“I chew just fine, Deandra,” Frank protests, scowling, but he scoots the chair back anyway, giving Dee cramped access to the keyboard and mouse. Dennis leans forward, stealing a breadstick for himself and looking around for Mac - finding him next to the faded Ireland map pinned up on the wall. When Dennis stands next to him Mac slings an arm around his waist like that’s where it’s supposed to have been all along.

Charlie shimmies onto upon the desk, legs swinging, sneakers bumping up against the wood. Dee stays standing - she’s talking Frank through opening Youtube - and Dennis’ skin prickles, like he’s being watched. He glances to the side and catches Mac’s eyes skimming over him, his cheeks faintly pink, hair a mess from a day spent hauling heavy boxes into the trunk of the range rover - and Dennis, not even really thinking so much as just _doing_ , leans forward and kisses him briefly on the corner of his mouth.

It’s selfish, maybe, to expect the world to freeze; or maybe even more so to be surprised when it doesn’t. Dee doesn’t look up from smacking the blank computer screen, hissing a litany of swear words. Frank’s snoring again, leaning back in his chair. Charlie peels the label off his beer and points the bottle emphatically at Mac - they’re back on the olive-kelp argument, of course, naturally - and Mac rolls his eyes as he retorts, his hand settling more firmly on Dennis’ hip, his thumb stroking slow circles there.

Dennis has four hundred dollars tucked in his pocket, ready to be spent on booze or impulsivity or something else entirely. The back office is warm and loud, smelling of fresh takeout and stale smoke, and they’re empty on a Wednesday night except for the usual drunks who’ve settled sleepily into their corners.

It reminds him, strangely enough, of walking out the old apartment building a few years back the morning after a storm. The rain had kept him and Mac up until the early hours and in its aftermath the city had felt like something new, something washed clean. Like the water had exposed a softness underneath the concrete and the dirt, a momentary glimpse of something tender, before the pavement dried under the sunlight and hid it again.

“You alright?” Mac asks. His thumb is still circling steadily, slipping down just under the waistband of Dennis’ jeans to touch the sensitive skin underneath - and Dennis nods, leaning closer against his side, and Mac accepts him there like this is something he’s known how to do his whole life. How to hold him, how to touch. Maybe he has, and this is the first time Dennis has listened; or maybe he hasn’t, and this something they’re stumbling into together. Maybe it’s a little of both.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello my loves!! oh boy. thank you for being so patient and encouraging and kind, and i'm sorry this took so long - s13 kicked my entire ass five times over and it took me a while to recover. i promise the next chapter will be up quicker, but please badger me on [tumblr](https://azirapha1e.tumblr.com) if it isn't <3
> 
> (also, if anyone's interested in this kinda thing: 90% of this was written while listening to [this remix](https://youtu.be/oQDMO9cbTNQ), which isn't particularly relevant to this fic, but is both a banger and a post s12 mood)


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> cws for discussion of mental health, alcoholism, sensory overload, dissociation, and dennis being a bastard man.

It takes them days to get through the Paddy’s Brunch arbitration.

They lose Wednesday and Thursday to the cause - forty eight hours of screaming, hair pulling, and, at one point, dart throwing - but finally, as Friday morning dawns, the peace treaty gets written up on an Applebee’s napkin and signed by all parties.

“The Scheme Custodian, Frank Reynolds,” Mac reads out, “henceforth agrees that the Paddy’s Brunch Scam and all associated ventures and proceedings will be officially dissolved on Monday, September 7th. After the passing of September 7th, a blanket ban on serving food to any future customers of Paddy’s Pub will come into effect. The Scheme Custodian and all other employees of the bar agree to adhere to this ban for now and forever, by the grace of God, amen.”

“Why’d you put all that God stuff at the end?”

Mac glances up from the napkin.

“‘Cause it’s an official document, Charlie. If it’s a document of the law you’ve gotta mention God a few times to make it official, that’s just how it works.”

“I thought, like,” Charlie says. “I thought you had to keep that stuff separate. Like, law on one side, church stuff on the other. I swear that’s a thing.”

“Why would that be a thing?” Mac says, frowning. “Why would you not want God involved, if shit goes down you want him on your side -”

“Okay,” Dennis says loudly, clapping his hands together. “All right. Great job, everyone. This has been a surprisingly civil end to the worst two days of my life, I think we can all agree that we settled this matter pretty well. If there’s nothing left to discuss, I’m going to go home and get some sleep.”

“Yeah, sleep now,” Frank warns. “‘I’m makin’ the most of this weekend. I want you all here tomorrow by five, you understand?”

“Whatever, Frank, your scheme’s dead,” Dee snaps. She tugs at the dart still caught in her hair. “Not that anyone’s surprised by that development.”

They slip into yet another bickering match. It’s an annoyance and a blessing in disguise, because it makes it easy for Dennis to head outside without being noticed. He’s got as far as unlocking the car when he hears footsteps on the sidewalk behind him.

“You want me to come?”

 _Yes,_ Dennis thinks.

“Thought I might stop by the store first,” he says, instead. “Pick something up for dinner. I’ll swing by and get you on the way back.”

Mac expression isn’t exactly a pout, but it’s about as close to it as a forty year old man can get.

“Comeon, Dennis.”

“Someone needs to stay here and make sure Dee doesn’t actually kill anyone,” Dennis points out. Mac rolls his eyes - just as he opens his mouth to retort, a loud bang echoes from inside the bar.

They both pause.

“Was that -“

“Frank’s gun,” Dennis confirms, grimly. Mac groans, swearing under his breath as he glances over at the door.

“Go on,” Dennis says. He makes a little shooing motion with his hands. “Save the day, or whatever. I’ll pick you up later.”

Mac bites his lip, apparently still torn.

“Get me a shake?”

Dennis frowns at him; and Mac’s eyes go wide and earnest, like he’s never gonna ask for anything else in his life -

“What kind?” Dennis mutters reluctantly, rubbing a hand over his face.

Mac beams at him.

“The pink one,” he says, like that means anything at all. With any luck it will mean something at the 7/11 - and if it doesn’t, tough shit. Dennis signed up for making out, not learning Mac’s milkshake preferences.

Mac darts forward and kisses him on the corner of his mouth. They’re alone on the sidewalk, and Dennis decides this is the perfect opportunity to prove his point; he reaches out and grabs hold of his forearm, pulling him back in when Mac starts to move away, and what was meant to be quick turns into something long and maybe a little too dirty for a public street. Dennis slides his tongue over Mac’s bottom lip and gets lost in the steady heat of his mouth, the weight of Mac’s hands as they press up against his back like Mac wants to keep him close. He lets himself have it for another second longer, and another, and then he shuts his eyes and presses their foreheads together, his nose nudging up against Mac’s.

“What was that for?” Mac asks, sounding dazed. He’s smiling a little.

“Luck,” Dennis says. “I’ll text you when I get back.”

It was the right thing to tell him. Mac nods, his expression clearing - and then he‘s kissing Dennis again, just briefly, and walking towards the door of the bar, heading inside.

Dennis’ smile drops.

 

* * *

 

Sometimes you tell a lie, accidentally or otherwise, and end up living it as truth. Sometimes, but admittedly not often, that lie involves a man who’s sort of but not really your father digging money out of his shoe and handing it to you in a plastic bag - and you weren’t expecting that outcome from the lie, maybe, but you’re perfectly willing to exploit it for your own gain. You’re willing to. You _want_ to. And you don’t.  
  
“So,” the doctor says, not unkindly. “Dennis. Why are you here?”

Dennis’ original plan, and the one he probably should have stuck to, was to spend the four hundred on whatever. New sheets, maybe, along with whatever shitty knick knacks (pillows, candles, weird ornaments on clearance) Mac decided to drop surreptitiously into their shopping cart. Sensible things. Things he’s been planning to get for a little while.

Apparently, no matter how much he tries to avoid it, he can never resist doing dumb shit on a whim.

“Dennis?”

“I had,” Dennis hears himself saying, distantly. “I had a rough patch. Over the last few months.”

There’s a name tag on her shirt. Dennis decides to look at that, rather than at her face. _Justine Lang_.

“And did this include,” Doctor Lang says, making note of something on the paper in front of her, “any suicidal thoughts or suicidal ideation?”

He knew a kid named Lang, back at Penn - who was Lang most days of the week except for Fridays, when it was drag night at the bar down the street. Dennis never went. Maybe he should’ve. There was always glitter caught on the shitty carpet of his dorm’s hallway for a few days afterwards.

“Dennis,” the doctor says again, gently. Dennis shakes himself.

“I,” he says. “Yeah. To both.”

“And did this period involve any incidents in which you were a danger to yourself or others?”

Dennis closes his eyes.

“Yes.”  
  
“Sounds like quite the rough patch,” Doctor Lang says. It’s almost funny - the most mild mannered understatement in the world. He doesn’t laugh, but he can hear the gap in the conversation where he should have.

“That’s one way of putting it,” he mutters.  
  
He already knows what she’s going to say next. It isn’t hard to follow where the questions are leading - _what was the catalyst?_   _Why’d you do it? What’s your excuse?_

Dennis swallows.  
  
“I… I went off my medication. On purpose.”

If she’s judging him, she doesn’t show it. He’ll give her credit for that, at least.  
  
“Medication for -“ Doctor Lang looks down to check his file. “- borderline personality disorder, correct?”

Dennis nods.

“May I ask why?”

“Didn’t feel like it was doing anything to actually fix my shit,” Dennis says - his voice sounds weird. Speaking feels weird. He clears his throat. “I didn’t - it gave me headaches. I was tired a lot. So I, you know. I stopped.”

“That must have been challenging to work with,” Doctor Lang says. “Dealing with those side effects by yourself.”  
  
Dennis glances up at her, frowning.  
  
“It was,” he admits. He waits for… he doesn’t know what he’s waiting for. For her to start laughing, maybe. In the end she just nods, making another small note in the margin of the page.  
  
“Have you lost weight since you were given this prescription?”  
  
“I don’t see how that’s -“  
  
“It can be just a yes or no,” Lang says, softly. “That’s all that’s needed. Just a ballpark.”  
  
Dennis exhales.  
  
“Yes.”  
  
She goes quiet for a moment; looking down at her notes. Dennis taps his fingers in a quick, aimless rhythm against his wrist.

“I think,” Doctor Lang tells him eventually, leaning back in her chair, “that you’d benefit from a lower dosage that’s more accurate to your present physical condition and where you are emotionally, which I can arrange for you now. Possibly a medication switch long-term if that doesn’t take. But I would like to also strongly advise -“  
  
She pushes some pamphlets across the table.  
  
“That you look into some one-on-one sessions here at the clinic.”

There’s a long silence.

“I just want the meds,” Dennis says. The words feel strange and ugly in his mouth. Like he’s swallowed cotton.  
  
“They’re an excellent step,” Doctor Lang says, gently. “But they’re one part of a whole. Dialectical behavioural therapy is proven -“  
  
“I’m not doing that.”  
  
His voice has gone oddly high.  
  
“It wouldn’t be -“  
  
“Keep the goddamn pamphlets,” Dennis snaps, shoving them back across the table. “I’m not - I can’t do that. I’m not talking to a shrink.”

“Dennis, I’m not going to force you.” Doctor Lang sounds disgustingly, frustratingly calm. It’s making things worse. “But I’d like to request that you come back in three months, so we can talk about the dosage adjustment. And maybe then you could give this another look.”  
  
“Are we done?” Dennis says shortly.  
  
“Almost.”  
  
She tears off a scrip and fills it in. The pen scratches overly loud on the paper. Dennis flinches, despite himself.

“You’ll need to hand over at the desk on your way out,” Lang says - Dennis snatches it out of her hands and leaves the room without another word, moving as fast as he can without slipping into a run.  
  
They locked Dee up, back in college. They did the same to Frank when he was a kid. Who’s to say someone wouldn’t take one look at him - the things he thinks, the things he’s done, the things he does - and throw him in one of those places too?

This was a stupid idea. He was stupid to think of it in the first place. He shouldn’t have come here at all.

His phone buzzes - Dennis checks it, his fingertips oddly numb, and finds three messages waiting for him on the screen. He pushes it back in his pocket again, feeling dizzy.

Several things happen, but he isn’t sure of the order. There’s a room with tile and a room with carpet. There’s a flickering light that bugs him, and a screaming child that bugs him even more. He gives the piece of paper to someone. He’s out in the parking lot.

 _The car_ , he reminds himself, catching sight of the range rover. His thoughts feel empty and sluggish. _Get in the car._

Dennis sits with his hands on the steering wheel even though the keys aren’t in the ignition - he shifts in his seat after a minute or so, unlocks his phone out of habit. The messages are still there. Mac’s name is at the top of all of them. The phone buzzes loudly as a fourth comes in and Dennis swears under his breath, turning it off and shoving it down on the passenger seat, and then -

Quiet. Not completely. Enough that the crawling sensation under his skin starts to fade out into nothing.

Dennis tilts his head up to the ceiling and shuts his eyes. He counts to ten, then back down again.

He doesn’t want to go to the bar. The gang is at the bar; they’ll just needle and pick at him until he snaps. He doesn’t want to go to the apartment, either. He definitely doesn’t want to be here.

None of this is right. None of this is what he wanted. None of this is _right_ \- Dennis had a script all laid out, a good one, why isn’t anything sticking to it?

Dennis has a brief, casual appointment at the walk-in clinic. Dennis stops off for hoagies and a strawberry shake on the drive back. Dennis kisses Mac again on the sidewalk outside the bar, and it’s a good kiss, an old Hollywood movie sort of kiss. The rest of the day flows out effortlessly in front of them: maybe they head out together, walk around the city, or maybe they go home, or maybe they hang around for a while at the bar, waiting for something to catch the gang’s collective attention and absorb their afternoon.

What’s wrong with that? Why wasn’t that good enough?

He reaches blindly into the glove box - grabbing hold of the first CD he finds there and snapping it in half, and then in half again, breathing hard. He drops the pieces on the floor and snatches up another, splitting it viciously the same way.

The words printed on the discs are still vaguely recognisable. _Station to Station: Remastered_ , and his backup copy of _Like a Virgin_ ; the one with the scratch down the middle.

Twenty dollars down the drain. All in under a minute.

The CD shards crunch dully under his shoes as he presses down on the gas pedal and slowly pulls out the parking lot. He turns the radio on but doesn’t hear whatever it is that’s playing; just drives around the block mechanically, once, twice, existing in a space that feels empty and liminal - and when the car grinds to a halt, settled on a curb, Dennis keeps his head bowed for a few seconds before he looks up.

The first thing he notices is that the street he’s on is familiar.  The second thing he notices, with a low jolt in his stomach, is that he’s driven home. _Home_ \- not Dee’s apartment. Their apartment.

It hadn’t been particularly easy, talking Mac into moving in with him. Not at first. He’d asked for the first time the summer after he finished college, when Mac had a gig waiting tables at a restaurant in Old City and never made it back to his mom’s house after late shifts - choosing instead to forgo the bus fare and the long walk home from the station, crashing on Dennis’ couch every night.

“We should get a place,” Dennis had said, while the two of them ate pasta out of takeout boxes, freshly pilfered from the restaurant‘s Friday night buffet.

“My mom needs me,” Mac had insisted. Dennis had raised his eyebrows and given him a look, and Mac had flushed a little and turned his head away - he never could lie to Dennis’ face - and that had been that, for a while. Until December of the same year. Mac, post twelve hour shift and looking about as close to death as a living person can get, had showed up at ten past midnight, mumbling about lost keys, getting locked out, his mom passed out drunk on the couch -

“Dude, I’ve said it a million times,” Dennis had said. “We should get a place. Come on. You and me.”

“My credit’s a shitshow, Dennis,” Mac had mumbled into the couch cushions, but he’d let Dennis talk him round, the way he always lets Dennis talk him round, and they’d celebrated with beers and a shitty Matrix cam-rip. The light from the tv had caught, soft and illuminating, in Mac’s hair when he fell asleep. Dennis remembers that clearly, because he also remembers the fight he had with himself - whether he should wake him, whether he should leave him be, and whether he should stop looking at him so much.

He slips out the car, leaning with his back against the door as he looks up at the fire escape he’s smoked on a thousand times. The roof he’d had his twenty fifth birthday on - and his twenty sixth, and his twenty seventh. The year him and Mac turned twenty eight was the year Frank had showed up; Dennis had swiped his card and rented a suite at the Hilton down on City Avenue. They’d taken everything in the minibar, utterly drunk and laughing themselves stupid, and then fallen asleep to the dulcet tones of wrestling on pay-per-view. The bed had been a California king. Dennis had still somehow woken up with Mac’s arm flung out over his face.

Seventeen years is a long time. It’s a long time live somewhere. With someone.

The new apartment has the wrong art on the wrong walls, and the rooms are in the wrong places. You wouldn’t know, Dennis thinks, looking up at his old bedroom - you wouldn’t know, if it weren’t for the soot stains under the windows and the empty darkness behind the glass, that his and Mac’s corner of this building wasn’t lived in anymore. Maybe they’ll fix it up soon and some new people will move in. Maybe they won’t. He kind of hopes that they won’t.

“Dennis?”

He jumps, turning on his heel, and he sees -

It’s the Waitress. Her. Whatever her name is.

“I,” Dennis says, blankly. “Yeah. What - what are you doing here?”

She hands him a tissue. Dennis glances down at it, frowning; then glances back up at her, still frowning. The Waitress clears her throat.

“You’ve got,” she says, gesturing to his face and not quite looking him in the eye.

Dennis feels himself redden.

“Oh.”

He wipes hurriedly at his cheeks - then shoves the tissue, covered in dark smudges of eyeliner, into the pocket of his jeans. The silence between them somehow gets even louder once he’s done. It’s starting to make his skin crawl.

“Fuck, this is weird,” says The Waitress. Dennis snorts out a laugh, despite himself, and there’s another beat of quiet.

Then:

“You… you know Dee pretty well, right?”

“I mean, we’re twins,” Dennis says. “And I’ve been working on a psychological profile of her since we were seven. So yeah, I think that’s accurate to say.”

“Jesus,” The Waitress mutters, shaking her head. “Wow.”

Dennis scowls.

“What’s that supposed to -”

“Oh my god, _nothing_. I need advice.”

There’s a pause.

“Advice about Dee,” Dennis says. The Waitress sighs, sounding exasperated.

“Yes.”

“And you think I could provide that advice?”  
  
“I think you could fuck me over and try to break us up,” she tells him, bluntly. “And I’m trying to figure out if this is worth the risk.”

He wouldn’t. Not willingly, anyway. Messing with Dee is a complicated system of push and pull that he’s long since perfected - breaking up the first actual relationship she’s had since high school doesn’t a place in it. It’s clumsy, pointless, and too obvious. There’s no benefit hiding behind it. All it would achieve is a fight.

It’s important to have leverage, though. It’s important to have control.

“Only one way to find that out,” Dennis says. He keeps his voice light, just to piss her off a little. The Waitress takes the bait - she’s glaring now, her jaw set - and Dennis makes himself smile.  
  


* * *

 

They end up on opposite ends of a bench at the street corner.  
  
Dennis doesn’t really want the coffee he’s holding. He keeps it anyway, just for something warm to occupy his hands with. He knots and unknots his fingers together around the cup.  
  
“She does the same thing.”  
  
Dennis jumps a little.  
  
“What?”  
  
“With her hands,” The Waitress says, her voice quiet. “When she’s nervous.”  
  
“Okay, weird,” Dennis mutters. The Waitress shoots him a withering look - opens her mouth, then closes it again, like she’s thought better of it.  
  
“Look,” she says, eventually. “I… I asked Dee if she wanted to come to New York with me. Just, like, a day trip sort of thing, that’s all, for the two of us in December - and now she’s not talking to me. At all. And I don’t know what to do.”

“Well, yeah,” Dennis says. “Obviously she’s not, that’s classic Dee. She’s got this complex about self-reliance, it’s all to do with proving herself. Kinda pathetic, really, but. Y’know. It’s morbidly interesting to watch it play out.”  
  
There’s a brief pause.  
  
“Just wait a few days,” he adds. “Let her realise she’s being a bitch about it. She’ll come back.”  
  
The Waitress stares at him. Dennis takes a slow sip of coffee.  
  
“Are you like this with him?”

Dennis goes very still.  
  
“Are you…” She hesitates, closing her eyes. “Are you like this with him. Mac.”  
  
“What does that have to do with -”  
  
“Dennis.” Her voice is shaking a little, which is usually a bad sign with chicks. It’s a bad sign with anyone, really. “You screwed up my whole life. My entire - I spent _years_ , following you. I lost everything. And you watched that happen to me, and you didn’t do anything except string me along and take advantage of me when it was convenient, or whatever. So excuse me for wanting to make sure you’re not about to do the exact same fucking thing to someone else, just because you like the way attention makes you feel.”  
  
The summer before he was due to start at secondary school, Dennis had climbed over the backyard fence to get a tennis ball Dee had managed to send soaring over it, which had landed in the middle of Mrs McKinley’s hydrangeas. Dennis had scrambled up there just fine, sitting proudly at the top with one leg dangling over the fence on Mrs McKinley’s side, and then he’d lost his balance and slipped down the rest of the way. The fall hadn’t been huge, maybe a metre or so, but he’d landed flat on his back in the middle of the raised bed - and there had been around five terrifying seconds where all the breath in his lungs just felt… gone. Like it had been pushed out of him by brute force. The way his chest feels right now is a lot like that.  
  
“What’s between me and Mac,” Dennis manages to say, “is none of your business -”  
  
“I don’t care.” Her expression is oddly reminiscent of Dee’s: her face set and stubborn. “Is that a yes?”  
  
“Stop it!” Dennis snaps. “Just - Christ, stop it, stop talking.”  
  
The Waitress folds her arms. Dennis ducks his head, because looking her in the eye while trying to get words out is becoming far too much to deal with at once.

“You don’t know shit about how I feel,” he mutters to his knees. “And you can stop worrying about Dee.”

The quiet between them stretches out for a long time after that. Dennis decides to risk a glance across the bench: The Waitress is staring at him, frowning faintly. At least she doesn’t look pissed anymore.

“I don’t know what he sees in you,” she says, eventually. Dennis laughs. It’s an ugly sort of sound.

“That makes two of us.”

Silence rushes back into the space between them, thick and heavy. Dennis picks at cardboard sleeve wrapped around his cup in lieu of picking at his fingernails. Then:

“Dennis, I don’t like you,” The Waitress says. “I don’t know if I’m ever gonna be at a point where I can like you, but I like your sister too much to keep doing this. I won’t start any crap with you, so long as you don’t start any crap with me, and I’ll try and keep our being in the same room time to a minimum. All right?”

Dennis raises an eyebrow.

“So you’ll stop asking shit about Mac?”

“On the condition that you leave me and Dee alone.”

“Done,” Dennis says, instantly.

“And,” she continues, “you have to use my name. My actual name. Because I know you know it.”

Dennis winces.

“Yeah, no. No way. That I can’t do.”

“Long shot,” The Waitress mutters. “ _Fine_. Whatever. It’d be weird anyway.”

Dennis clears his throat. He turns the cold coffee cup in his hands slowly and debates the quickest way to leave, but he’s beaten to the finish line.

The Waitress doesn’t bother with a goodbye, thankfully. She picks up her bag from where it’s sitting at her feet and then, just like that, she’s gone, her figure growing smaller and smaller as she heads down the street. Dennis watches her go, something flipping unsteadily in his stomach. He waits for the feeling to subside, and when it doesn’t he reaches into his pocket and scrabbles for his phone.

It’s off, he remembers. He flicks it back on hastily, navigating to his contacts, and -

_Missed Call (8)_

Mac picks up instantly. It’s a relief, and it’s not a good sign.

“Where the hell are you?”  
  
He wants to make a big deal out of it. Of course Mac wants to make a big deal out of it. Dennis’ skin prickles.

“Mac -“

“I got home and you weren’t there, dude, I thought you’d -“

“Thought I’d what?”

Mac’s quiet down the phone line. The pit in Dennis’ stomach lurches, growing deeper.

“You don’t trust me,” Dennis says. “That’s great. _Wonderful,_ Mac, thank you -“‘

He swallows. There are dangerous things humming in his throat that he doesn’t want to say, but want to make themselves heard. His skin is still itching; it makes him want to pinch and scratch, leave marks on something.

“Look, just - bro, tell me where you are, I’ll come get you -“

“I have the car,” Dennis cuts in. “Remember? And I don’t need you to come _get me_ , I’m a grown man. You don’t get a copy of my fucking itinerary.”

“Maybe we should talk later,” Mac mutters - which is pretty fucking rich, coming from a guy who called Dennis eight times over - and Dennis bites down hard on his lip as a last resort, tasting blood, but the words find their way out anyway.

“Is that a line your little therapist taught you?”

“Stop it,” Mac snaps - but it’s like something unravelling, like something’s come undone, and Dennis doesn’t think he’s even in his body anymore. He’s just watching himself talk from above.

“I don’t want to talk later,” he hears himself say, too loud. “I want to talk now. I want to talk about the real issue here, which, let’s be candid, is that you want me gone. You _hate_  me. You’re just too much of a goddamn coward to say it, and it’s all because you talk to some idiot a few times a week and think that makes you better than -“

“Dennis.” Mac’s voice is low and choked. Dennis keeps going.

“You don’t know shit,” he spits. “You just think that you do - and if you don’t trust me, fine, I don’t trust you either -“

“Dennis, _stop_.”

Dennis swallows. He hears Mac’s unsteady exhale rustle down the phone line.

This is the worst part. This is always the worst part. The way it feels afterwards, when the anger has drained.

“Don’t come home.”

“I -“

“Dennis,” Mac warns, his voice shaking a little. “Don’t. Not yet.”  
  
Dennis scrambles for something; anything, anything to say, anything at all that could keep Mac on the line. The silence is getting longer and more expectant and there are things he should say; things he needs to say, but the words won’t come. There’s nothing in him anymore.

“Yeah,” Mac says, quietly. He hangs up.

 

* * *

 

Dennis doesn’t remember driving to the bar. Dennis doesn’t really remember anything after Mac hanging up on him - but he’s here, staring at the familiar, grimy front door. He hesitates for a moment before pushing it open.

The lights aren’t on. He flicks the switch and his eyes are drawn to the figure slumped in the middle booth.

“I’m here to get drunk,” he announces, grabbing a beer from behind the bar. Dee’s eyes flick over to him, brief and listless.

“Bring me one.”

Dennis wonders if she’s supposed to be drinking. He decides not to ask.

He shoves the second bottle over the table as he sits down on the empty side of the booth. Dee doesn’t acknowledge him except to pop the cap and take a long drink, wiping her mouth on the sleeve of her shirt when she’s done.

“So,” Dennis says. Dee groans.

“Shut up.”

“Yeah,” Dennis mutters. He’s not in the mood for talking anyway.

Naturally, of course, this is when Dee decides to change her mind.

”Christ, fine. I’ll bite. Why are you here?”

Dennis snorts.

“Why do you think I’m here?” he says, picking at the label on his beer bottle. He glances up to meet Dee’s eyes for a second, and whatever Dee sees on his face makes her wordlessly lift her beer in her hand - Dennis leans forward, clinking his own bottle against her own, before pulls his arm back and takes a long drink.

“I want to be drunk,” he mutters, “and I want to not talk about anything. All right?”

It doesn’t take long for them to get four beers in. They’re hitting Dee harder than they’re hitting him. She’s losing her touch; or losing the alcoholism, depending on the way you look at it.

Dennis thinks about Dee destroying the only good thing she has, and he thinks about himself doing the same thing. This, then, is the defining Reynolds family trait: ripping up your own happiness before someone else can do it first.

“I hate him,” he says into the silence. Dee snorts.

“No, you don’t.”

“How do you -”

“Because I don’t hate her, moron,” Dee says, rubbing a hand over her face. She sounds incredibly tired. “And I know how you work. So.”

Her voice is slurring; a sixth or seventh beer sort of thing for Dee. It used to be, at least.

Guilt starts to uncurl low in Dennis’ stomach, curdling the warm haze of the alcohol that’s spread through him into something sharper and far less pleasant - this is the trouble with going back to a bad habit after leaving it for a little while. You’ve had time to see how ugly it looks. The comfort isn’t clear cut anymore, if you can even call it comfort at all.

Dennis makes a decision.

“All right,” he says. He leans across the table to snatch up Dee’s fifth beer, taking his own in his other hand, and pours them both out onto the floor.

Dee gapes at him.

“What the _fuck_ , Dennis -”

“I’m cutting us off. This is pathetic.”

“And you had to do that by getting shit all over the floor?”

“Charlie can deal with it,” Dennis says, waving a dismissive hand. “Whatever. Kid’s cleaned up worse.”

“You promised we could get drunk,” says Dee, accusingly. Dennis kicks her ankles under the table.

“Dee.”

They stare at each other - for two seconds, for three.

Dee groans.

“Yeah, I know. I know.”  
  
They sit for a little longer. Dennis watches the beer puddle soak into the floor and briefly entertains the notion that Dee, possibly, has a point - and then decides that even if she does, she has no appreciation for dramatic gestures, and he’s too tired to do anything about that or the puddle situation. Dee hauls herself upright with a groan, getting out her phone and disappearing into the backroom; Dennis limps over to the bar and rummages through the battered cooler for a bottle of water before sitting back down, taking a careful sip.

“I’m gonna meet Annie out front.”

Dennis nods, eyes closed.

“Dennis,” Dee says.

“What?”

“Be around tomorrow. I’m not dealing with this brunch finale bullshit by myself.”

Dennis looks over at her. She gives him the faint, exhausted ghost of a smile.

“Yeah,” he mutters. “Okay.”

His eyes are closed again by the time he hears the door close behind her.

It’s getting late. Probably. It’s always difficult to judge the time of day inside the bar - sometimes it feels like it exists in its own space, separate from the rest of the world - but there’s no light coming in through the small windows near the door. That usually means it’s past seven, at least.

Dennis folds his arms on the table and rests his head there. He feels fuzzy with drink and sleep, and he keeps straying towards the thoughts he usually tries to hide from like a moth drawn to a porch light. The way it feels when Mac kisses him. The steady warmth of Mac’s hands on his wrists. Mac leading him, keeping him still.

His fingers are a little numb. Dennis tucks his hands into his sleeves and debates, sleepily, getting out his phone, but -

_Don’t come home._

Sometimes you want someone, and sometimes you want them so much that you don’t walk after them when they leave - and sometimes that aching is as intimate as any other act that two bodies can do.

All that’s left for you, then, is to wait.

It’s not like he hasn’t slept in the bar before. They all have, at one time or another - occasionally at the same time - and it’s not unsurvivable, despite what his back tends to tell him the morning after. It’s better than a fight.

Dennis curls his fingers further into his jacket, keeping them away from the cold. He gives in to the tiredness creeping in behind his eyes.

 

* * *

 

It kind of says a lot about him, in Dennis’ opinion, that even when he’s dreaming the interior of his car looks exactly the same. Apparently he just knows it that damn well.

He’s curled in the passenger seat, his back pressed up awkwardly against the armrest under the window. He can see Mac in profile: his face illuminated every few feet by the passing flash of a street light. His eyes are on the road. Dennis reaches for him, instinctive and clumsy with sleep; touches the only part of Mac he can reach. His fingers skate briefly over Mac’s forearm, the one closest to him, and -

Mac jumps.

“Jesus, dude,” he breathes out, glancing over at Dennis. “I thought you were sleeping.”

 _You’re not the only one,_ Dennis thinks.

He barely knows what he wants to say. He definitely doesn’t know how he wants to say it. He doesn’t know anything, except that he’s never wanted to touch or be touched more than he has right now, and the longing is so thick and heavy that it’s starting to make his throat close up, his eyes slip shut -

“Dennis.”

The hand shaking his shoulder is warm. Dennis blinks awake again, slowly. The passenger door is open and his seat belt is undone; Mac’s stood in front of him, his breath faintly visible. The cold air is bringing pink out on his cheeks.

Dennis swallows.

When they finally step into the darkness of their living room, Dennis turns to face him and opens his mouth to say his name. Before he can say anything at all Mac’s closed the distance between them in two short strides, pulling him in close.

It’s like something shuts off. Something inside goes quiet, and in its wake this is all there is: the sheer rightness of Mac’s body up against him, the way he smells and the uneven sound of his breathing - Dennis shudders and Mac holds him tighter, fingers bunched in the back of his shirt as he noses at his hairline. It’s the first thing to make sense all day.

“Mac,” Dennis says. That’s as far as he gets, because Mac’s cupping his head with both hands, pressing closer insistently and kissing him slow, thumbs stroking over Dennis’ cheeks. It’s a heavy, full sort of kiss - or maybe it becomes one when Mac’s tongue slides into his mouth, hot and steadying. They slip into a rhythm, Dennis winding his arms up around Mac’s neck, and he doesn’t realise his breath is hitching until Mac makes a low sound against his mouth and starts kissing him softer, sweeter. Dennis chases after him, following Mac’s mouth when he pulls away.

“You taste like beer,” Mac murmurs. Dennis ducks his head.

He’s expecting sex. That’s how people usually resolve these things, in his experience - sleeping with someone is the easiest transaction in the book when it comes to apologies. The fact that sex with Mac is always good is just an added bonus. Mac can fuck him up against the wall and find his peace in it, and Dennis can fall asleep tonight knowing he’s fixed whatever it was he broke, and tomorrow the world will slip back onto its proper axis again.

Mac’s hand closes around his fingers. He walks them both to the bathroom, flicking on the light with his free hand.

“On the counter,” Mac says, tapping him on the arm. Dennis pushes himself up and sits in front of the mirror. Mac steps forward, fitting easily between his legs, and reaches for one of the make up wipes on the side.  
  
“I can do this myself,” Dennis points out, because he can. Mac’s free hand settles around one of his knees and his thumb strokes there, slowly.

“Dennis,” Mac says. “Shut up.”

He’d make a point of arguing, usually, just to contrary. There’s a look on Mac’s face; one he hasn’t seen there that often, that makes him stay quiet. It’s got something to do with the faint redness high on his cheekbones, and how his eyelashes are tacking together.  
  
Mac is gentle and methodical. The wipe is pleasantly cool on Dennis’ skin, and when it gets dirty Mac drops it on the countertop and trades it for a new one. He works his way down from Dennis’ forehead over his cheeks, taking particular care with his eyes, with the places on his cheekbones where he’s probably seen Dennis dot highlighter. He’s warm, this close. When he puts the final wipe down Dennis leans forward and rests his forehead on Mac’s chest, noses at his shirt. _Beast Coast_ , the faded block letters announce. It’s worn soft from a decade or so of washes.  
  
“I did something.”

Mac tenses. Dennis swats at his chest without lifting his head.  
  
“Stop catastrophizing, idiot,” he says, a little muffled. “I don’t mean it like that.”  
  
Mac settles again, but his body’s still not quite loose the way it was before. A hand sinks into Dennis’ hair, starts to stroke.  
  
“So how do you mean it?”  
  
“I mean I got a new prescription,” Dennis mutters.  
  
The carding fingers in his hair go still.  
  
Mac doesn’t say anything for a long time. Long enough that Dennis starts to wonder if somehow he’s fucked this up already, and then:  
  
“You want me to pick it up with you?”  
  
“It’s different,” Dennis says. “To, uh. To the first one. It’s not gonna numb everything so much.”  
  
It’s not an answer. Mac doesn’t seem to care. Dennis feels him shift, pulling back a little - and then they’re face to face under the white fluorescence of the bathroom light.

“Are we still fighting?” Dennis blurts out. He regrets it immediately when his voice cracks a little at the end.

“I don’t know, dude,” Mac says, honestly. “I usually wait for you to, like. Establish that.”

 _Before_ , he doesn’t add. _Before this. Before we were like this._ It’s weird, remembering that there was a before-this - but it’s also the most natural thing in the world, because his dynamic with Mac has always been anything but static. Strangers, best friends, adversaries; all three at once and none of them at all. The only thing about them that hasn’t changed, on the chaotic and unpredictable path that’s led them from fifteen to here, is the thread tying them together.

“I was an asshole,” Dennis says. His voice is still cracking; he clears his throat, tries again. “I was an asshole earlier.”

“Dennis -“

Mac sounds like he’s got a point he wants to make. Dennis cuts him off.

“I’m sorry.”

And then it’s out there, the words hanging suspended in the air between them. Mac’s expression shifts briefly into something inexplicably, unreadably soft, and then back again.

“Forcing you out was a dick move,” he says, his eyes flicking down. “So I think, y’know. I think maybe we’re even.”

“We’re not fighting anymore,” says Dennis, cautiously. The soft look flickers over Mac’s face again, just as fleeting.

“We’re not fighting,” he says. His fingers play gently with the curls at the back of Dennis’ neck.

“Good,” Dennis mutters, leaning forward to rest his head against Mac’s chest again. “I’m tired as shit.”

Mac snorts.

“Brush your teeth, bro,” he says, stepping back. Dennis rolls his eyes - Mac’s the only person in the world, probably, who considers that word a term of endearment - but he does as bid while Mac showers. They swap places afterwards. Mac’s an idiot and doesn’t bother with a towel, just decides it’s his god given right to drip water all over the floor as he spits toothpaste into the sink - and Dennis is about to chew him out for it when Mac lifts his head and turns off the tap.

“You wanna come to bed?” he says, glancing over at Dennis - naked, his hair damp and his eyes hopelessly warm, like he can’t even help it, looking at Dennis like that. Like he couldn’t hide it if he wanted to.

Dennis swallows.  
  
“Yeah,” he says. His mouth is very dry.

Mac sits down first on the edge of the sheet. He’s on his side of the bed, his figure outlined and illuminated by the faint glow of the streetlight across the road, eyes are closed as he stretches.

He’s still naked. Dennis is tired, and there’s still a little part of him that’s drifting, unsettled - it’s easy to cross the room and settle with one leg on either side of Mac’s thighs, to press his open mouth gently to Mac’s neck. Mac holds him there, stroking up and down the length of Dennis’ back. He brushes over his hole, just once, and Dennis shudders, rocking back against his fingers.

“Tomorrow,” he says, the words getting lost against Mac’s throat. “When we get home from all the brunch bullshit, we’re having makeup sex. And it’s going to be stellar.”

“Thought we weren’t fighting anymore,” Mac murmurs, biting lightly at Dennis’ collarbone.

“We’re not.” Dennis ducks his head so he can kiss the corner of his mouth. “That’s the whole point. Makeup sex comes after a fight.”

Mac pulls away mid-kiss, frowning.

“No,” he says. “Den, makeup sex is how you _resolve_ a fight. Everyone knows that, dude.”

“I can guarantee you I’m right,” Dennis says. Mac has the sheer audacity to roll his eyes, like Dennis is the one being ridiculous right now, but Dennis kisses him again anyway. Even if he doesn’t deserve it all that much.

“I can guarantee you that you’re not,” Mac says, when they break apart. Dennis flicks him on the nipple. Mac makes an odd, choked squawk of a sound, before muttering something that sounds an awful lot like, “sonofabitch,” and then he pushes Dennis off his lap so he can roll onto his side.

Dennis reaches over to the side table and checks his phone. _2:15am_ , the screen blares, obnoxiously bright. He groans.

“How long?” Mac mutters, shuffling forward to curl an arm over Dennis’ hips.

“Three hours,” Dennis says, yawning. “Little less, maybe.”

Mac makes a low, pained sound. Dennis shifts, turning his head back so he can brush his mouth over Mac’s arm, just below the curve of the tattooed feather on his shoulder. Mac noses at the nape of his neck and settles into stillness, his breathing evening out.

It’s the warmest he’s felt all day, Dennis realises. Here, under the sheets.

Maybe there’s such a thing as growing outwards, instead of up. Not - becoming something better, exactly, so much as just becoming more - recognising the pieces of yourself that make you who you are and giving them space. Like with plants. How you have to keep the pot the right size. There’s a word for it - rootbound, or something - he heard it on the shitty gardening show that’s always playing when he drives to Paddy’s in the morning.

“Stop thinkin’,” Mac says, sleepily. The warmth of his breath tickles the back of Dennis’ neck.

“You stop thinking,” Dennis retorts. Mac makes a quiet, contented sort of sound as Dennis leans back against him, aligning the curve of their bodies under the blankets.

“Go to sleep, Den,” Mac mumbles; low and hushed-soft. Like he’s already dreaming.

Dennis closes his eyes.

 

* * *

 

5am bears down on them mercilessly, relentlessly, and without grace.

Both him and Mac are slumped in a corner booth. Dennis is sitting up against the back wall, mostly awake; Mac is curled next to him with his head resting on Dennis’ thighs, mostly the opposite. They ended up being twenty minutes late - not that it mattered all that much anyway, since the rest of the gang showed up late too. Dennis is starting to doubt that anyone is supposed to be conscious at 5am.

“Okay, who was it?” Charlie’s sat on the floor by the pool table, knees up by his chin. “Who got beer all over the floor overnight?”

Dee, not lifting her head from her arms, waves a vague hand in the direction of the booths.

“That would be Dennis.”

“You’re the one who told me to open them,” Dennis mutters, scowling. “Don’t pin this on me.”

“And neither of you could be bothered to clean up a little? Do you realise how shitty beer stains can - Frank! Come _on_ , buddy. You’re getting meat crumbs all over the place.”

“I need sustenance, Charlie,” Frank says stubbornly, waving the jerky packet in his hand. “This is a very early hour for me, at my age. I’m vulnerable.”

“I just mopped this floor, dude.”

“So mop it again,” Frank tells him, voice slightly muffled as he chews. “This place is filthy as shit.”

“Oh, it is? Then how come we always get top marks in health inspections, huh?”

This could get loud, Dennis realises. Arguments between Frank and Charlie can get incredibly loud without warning. Mac shifts on his lap, still dead to the world - for both their sakes, Dennis decides to intervene.

“Guys,” he says. “Guys, guys. Gentlemen. Let’s stay focused here. These aren’t the questions we should be asking. The _real_ question we should be looking at here, the one worth thinking about, is what we do next.”

Mac nods sleepily in agreement, his eyes closed.

“We need something new,” he mutters. “New plans.”

Dennis finds it pretty easy to tune out the resultant bickering. Mac’s hair is soft and freshly washed from the night before. He makes a satisfied sort of hum when Dennis cards his fingers through it.

“Nightcrawlers has potential,” Charlie says. “We could do a card game.”  
  
“Do not start,” says Frank, sourly. “Do not _start_ with that again, Charlie -“  
  
“I’m just saying! Dude, you never listen to me - it’s fun, it has mass market appeal, it’s educational -“  
  
Dee frowns at him.  
  
“It’s educational?”  
  
“It’s educational,” Charlie continues, loudly. “It has, y’know, it has a lot of good points -“  
  
“I’m not supportin’ it,” Frank says. His face is set in a stubborn scowl.  
  
“Why the hell not?”  
  
“‘Cause Nightcrawlers is our thing, Charlie! I don’t wanna share our thing with a bunch of idiots who won’t understand it. That’s gonna bum me out.”  
  
“Wait, seriously?”  
  
Frank nods. Charlie beams at him.  
  
“That’s really sweet of you, dude.”  
  
“Yeah, well.” Frank upends the jerky bag, pouring the last of it into his mouth in one go. “I got hidden depths. I just don’t go braggin’ about it.”  
  
“Okay,” Charlie says. “So... okay, not a card game, then. What about a stage adaption?”  
  
Frank perks up.  
  
“A stage adaption?”  
  
“Yeah! Like - we’ll build sets, rent out that theater down the street again -“  
  
“That could be tasteful,” Frank says, thoughtfully.  
  
“Obviously it would be tasteful,” Charlie says. “Obviously. ‘Cause we’d be the ones writing it. We would have complete control over the whole thing - and I’ll tell you what, Frank. You can be the worm.”

“I can be the worm?”  
  
“You can be the worm, pal!”  
  
“I am not performing in a worm play,” Dennis points out. It feels like something important to point out.  
  
“Well, we don’t want you in our worm play,” Charlie tells him. “Not with all this negativity you’ve got going. That’s not the Nightcrawlers vibe.”

“No worms,” Mac mumbles into Dennis’ trouser leg.

“Not for us,” Dennis promises - he yawns, stretching his arms and rolling his shoulders. “We’ll leave the worms to these idiots.”

“Mhm,” Mac says, eloquently. Dennis strokes his hair again, tugging gently until Mac gets the idea and sits himself upright, still settled in Dennis’ lap: he tilts his head back on Dennis’ shoulder, just far enough that Dennis can duck his head and kiss him briefly on the mouth.

“It’s 6am,” Dee says, loudly.

Dennis raises his eyebrows.

“And?”

“It is _6am_ ,” Dee repeats. “You cannot be this horrendous in the bar at 6am.”

“S’our bar,” Mac points out.

“Dee, don’t be homophobic,” Dennis says, winding his arms around Mac’s waist. “Don’t be homophobic in our bar.”

“It is not homophobic,” Dee hisses, “to not want to watch your _brother_ french his _coworker_ at six fucking am -“

“We weren’t frenching!” Mac objects, mildly wounded. “Come on -“

Dennis frowns, thoughtfully.

“We could be frenching, though. I mean, if that’s what you want -“

“Your sister is a lesbian, Dennis,” Frank says around a mouthful of olives. Dee lifts her hands, triumphant.

“ _Thank you._ Not an ideal voice of reason but yes, thank you, Frank. I’ll take it.”

“And,” Frank adds, “more importantly, nobody is frenchin’ anyone in this bar until brunch is over. We gotta keep our eyes on the prize.”

“There’s a prize?” Charlie says, intrigued. He lifts his head up from his folded arms.

“You’re damn right there’s a prize.” Frank opens the cherry container on the counter and scrapes a handful out, swallowing them whole. “Stone cold cash, that's what it is. We pull this off, we could make a boatload.”

“So - okay, hold up. Is the boat the prize, or are people, like, paying with boats -“

“He’s saying people are gonna give us a shitton of money,” Mac explains. Charlie’s expression clears.

“Right! Okay. So we get the money, then we buy the boat.”

“Nobody is buying a boat,” Dennis mutters, rubbing his temples. “We’ve always had shit luck in that department, I’m not doing a boat thing again.”

Charlie frowns.

“What about a bus?”

“Charlie -” Dee begins, exasperated. Charlie waves an impatient hand at her, cutting her off.

“Look, hear me out. If we got a bus, we could do that tour guide thing other bus people do. I watched a couple of tourists fork out a hundred bucks to go on one of those a few days ago.”

“A hundred bucks,” Dee says, slowly. “And that was for a bus tour? Those people paid a hundred bucks to - what, just be driven around Philly?”

“Exactly!”

“Huh,” Dee says. “Well. When you put it like that.”

“Don’t you need a license to drive a bus?” Mac points out, frowning. Dennis nods.

“Frank, you got a bus license guy?”

“Yeah, I got one,” Frank says. “It ain’t cheap, though. And buses ain’t cheap either.”

“See, that’s why we need the brunch cash,” Charlie explains. “So we can go from one thing to another. That’s how the big leagues do it. You buy shit, you make your boats, you sell your boats, you buy more shit. We’re the little guys playing the system from the inside.”

“And the first step to buying shit,” Frank says, clapping his hands together, “is gonna be gettin’ this place dolled up nice. C’mon. Uniforms on. You all know the drill.”

Dee and Charlie groan, dragging themselves up. Dennis tightens his arms around Mac’s waist, ducks his head to hide in the warm hollow where Mac’s neck and shoulder meet.

He wishes, just briefly, that he could look up again and see the familiar walls of their bedroom in front of him. Right down to the laundry basket tucked away in the corner and the patch of peeling wallpaper around the skirting board.

“Last shift,” Mac murmurs. The hand on Dennis’ arm tightens briefly, like Mac doesn’t want him to forget he’s there - and then Mac’s pushing himself upright and running a hand through his hair as he walks towards the back office.

One more shift. Then, home.  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's currently approaching 1am and i've been watching the nightman cometh live on repeat for the past two hours while editing this - so if any parts of this chapter don't make sense, that's probably why. thank u so, so much for sticking w me, leaving kudos, commenting, and doing all the kind things that u do!! ur all wonderful, and tbh u guys are the reason this chapter got finished at all <3 hmu on [tumblr](http://macfoundhispride.tumblr.com) if ur also feeling the post-s13 void
> 
> (disclaimer: the conversation dennis has regarding his prescription is based on my own experiences - i'm not american, so lmk if there's anything in that scene that feels out of place/incorrect x)


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> cws for discussion of mental health, unhealthy attitudes towards sex, sensory overload, dissociation, and dennis being a bastard man.

“Toast?”

“Check.”

“Alcohol?”

“Check.”

“Coffee?”

“Dude,” Charlie says - flinging his arms up in the air, clearly exasperated. “Frank. We’ve been over this fifty times, buddy, everything’s all in place.”

“You’ve gotta be prepared,” Frank warns, waving a finger at him. “This is a big day for me, Charlie. I’m not havin’ anything ruin it.”

“It’s already ruined.” Dee’s voice is muffled; her head down on folded arms, her body huddled over a table. “It’s been ruined since you dragged us all here at 5am to watch you eat deli meats.”

It’s weird, Dennis thinks, as Mac yawns next to him for the third time that minute, how easily camaraderie can slip into tension. The looseness that had occupied the bar a few hours earlier is gone: there’s something heavy growing in the air, and it’s been there since the sun started poking through the grimy windows by the door.

Charlie stands up all of a sudden, running a hand through his hair. He starts tapping his fingers on the counter in an quick, unsteady rhythm. It’s too loud in the silence, or maybe it’s just too loud for Dennis - either way, it makes the skin on the back of his neck prickle. It makes him want to shout, or break something, or do both.

Dennis swallows. He shakes Mac’s shoulder to wake him; then, once he’s blinking into consciousness, grabs his hand and tugs him out out the booth, leading him towards the basement door. Mac frowns.

“Where are we -” 

“Come downstairs,” Dennis says, trailing his fingers up Mac’s forearm. He watches he way he shudders and prays he doesn’t pull back.

“Don’t we open in, like…” Mac glances down at his phone. “Twenty minutes?” 

Dennis raises an eyebrow.

“Are you saying you can’t make twenty minutes worthwhile?”

“Shut up,” Mac mutters - he really does have a ridiculous capacity for blushing, Dennis observes, eyeing the flush creeping up Mac’s neck. It’s absurd that a grown man is capable of blushing this much.

It’s also absurd that kissing Mac remains this intoxicating, no matter how many times Dennis does it. Mac presses forward once the basement door clicks shut behind them and backs Dennis up against the rail of the staircase - Dennis sighs, pushing closer as Mac’s hands trail up and down his arms. He rolls his hips against Dennis’, lazy and slow, half-hard - nobody is getting off anytime soon, they’ll save that for later - but it’s good all the same. Pleasure curls pleasantly through Dennis’ stomach, down to his toes. Mac tastes faintly of coffee as Dennis licks into the slick heat of his mouth and then sucks lightly on lower lip, fisting his hands in his shirt collar and changing the angle a little, keeping their hips pressed together.

Sometimes he feels like they could do this for hours. Lazy, open-mouthed kind of kisses, the kind that take time to build into anything more. Mac grinds down on him, slow and purposeful; Dennis shudders, legs moving further apart so Mac can shift even closer between them.

“Five minutes,” Charlie hollers from upstairs.

Mac almost trips as he jumps back, rocking on the balls of his feet. He swallows, runs a hand through his hair - which is a mess, Dennis notes appreciatively, even though this really isn’t the time - and then he licks his lips, pink and swollen.

“Uniforms,” Mac says, a little breathless.

They dress quickly. Dennis shrugs off his jacket and drapes it over an empty beer crate, pulling on the godawful apron in its place. Mac’s cursing quietly, tugging at a stubborn knot in his neckerchief - Dennis rolls his eyes as he steps forward and snatches it from Mac’s grip, smoothing the fabric out and tying it neatly around his neck.

“See you later, then,” Mac says. His voice is light and casual but his eyes are ducked down, following Dennis’ hands as they smooth the neckerchief’s wrinkles. Dennis strokes his fingers briefly over the faint freckles on Mac’s throat before stepping back and rolling his shoulders, resettling - not the time, not the place.

“Later,” he promises. Mac grins.

Dee’s eyebrows, when they emerge from the basement door again, are practically in her hairline. She pauses halfway through wiping down a beer glass, watching Dennis as he slips behind the bar with a look of exasperation and disbelief - Dennis elects to ignore her and primly re-apply his chapstick instead.

He’s more than ready to never do this again. Having a job, in Dennis’ opinion, is terrible. Vastly overrated. Nobody should do it. If anything, they need a failsafe system to prevent plans this labor-intensive from picking up steam - not that any of this is his fault, since he was against it from the start - but the way Frank swayed everyone’s loyalty away from him is how this whole disaster of a scheme came into being. It’s a loophole in the system; a dangerous one. He needs to fix it before it ruins anything else.

At one minute past nine, the shitty little welcome bell Charlie taped to the door tinkles - airy, light, and full of foreboding.

“This is Paddy’s, right?” the first Hipster Man Bun of the day says, poking his head around the door. “The brunch bar?”

Dennis grins, all teeth. He throws a set of menus across the countertop. They skid onto the floor.

 

* * *

 

The bar fills remarkably quickly - whether that’s a blessing or a curse, he’s still trying to decide. The kitchy chairs with their puffy seat cushions are all taken; the tables are cheerfully sticky from countless drinks and pancake orders - it’s all going well. It’s going well, so long as you count total, unfiltered chaos as ‘going well’; which Dennis, for the sake of his own sanity, has decided to do. It’s going well, and the air smells thickly of sugar, coffee, and -

Dennis sniffs the air, frowning. Dee makes landfall at the bar: dropping a full tray of empties onto it before staggering back, wiping her forehead.

“Dee,” Dennis whispers, snapping his fingers at her. Dee whirls around, looking half-wild.

“ _What?_ ”

“Can you smell burning?”

Dee rolls her eyes.  
  
“Charlie’s cooking, Dennis, of course I smell burning.”

“No - look, that's not what I -“

“Doesn’t matter,” Dee says, dismissively. “Listen to me. I need more punch.”

Dennis stares at her. His suspicions are momentarily forgotten.

“Already?”

Dee nods. Her expression is haggard.

“I told Frank we should’ve price hiked,” she mutters.

“He’s an idiot,” Dennis says. “I mean - the man wants to lecture _us_ about legality? With no drivers’ license and a trunk full of unregistered weaponry? It’s absurd. Not that it matters anyway, we’re out of vodka.”

Dee waves a hand at him.

“Whatever. Use Everclear.”

Dennis pauses, halfway through cleaning a shot glass.

“I’m sorry?”

“ _Everclear_ , moron. That’s vodka, just add some to -“

“We are not blinding our customer base with Everclear!”

“It’s not blinding them!” Dee hisses. “Nobody’s blinding them, just - look, cut it with some fruit juice, mix it up, nobody will be able to taste the difference -“

“They will _absolutely_ be able to taste -“

“Dennis,” says Dee, dangerously low. “Fruit punch. Now.”

A glass somewhere smashes with a loud crack. There’s a stress headache building behind Dennis’ eyes.

“Fine,” he snaps. Dee breathes a sigh of relief.

“Thank god. Okay. Two shots of tequila.”

Dennis shakes himself, pouring the drinks on autopilot. Dee downs them both in quick succession.

“Fruit punch,” she repeats warningly, backing away from the bar. The bell over the door rings again, as sharp and piercing as a gunshot. Dennis’ headache thumps harder.

* * *

 

There’s a chance, Dennis decides, that he could use the contents of the punch bowl to fill the Range Rover’s gas tank. He could patent it as some kind of disinfectant. He could use it to strip the paint off shipping containers. He could not, and should not, in its current state, legally serve it as a beverage. Not if he wants to avoid another lawsuit.

“Hey, excuse me?”

“One second,” Dennis mutters. He upends another carton of orange juice, watching it glug down into the bowl. The punch gurgles, suspiciously.

“Can I get a rum and coke?”

A large bubble floats to the surface. It sits there for a second, shiny and slick like an oil spill, before popping. The odour it leaves behind is vaguely reminiscent of rotting fruit. Dennis frowns.

“And, um… actually, can I get two of those? Two rum and cokes.”

He picks up a cocktail straw - holds it in his hand for a moment, testing the weight. He dips it, slow and cautious, into the punch bowl, stirring slowly. The punch gurgles again. A wave of foul smelling bubbles rises angrily to the top.

“....Hello?”

“Jesus _Christ_ ,” Dennis snaps, dropping the straw down on the countertop and whirling around to face the woman behind him. She glares at him, pushing her glasses up her nose - Dennis snarls wordlessly, grabbing the nearest rum-looking bottle and snatching a coke can out the cooler before shoving them across the bar.

“There. Rum and coke. Stop talking to me.”

“This is terrible customer service,” Pale Face Big Glasses says, scowling. “Like, for real -“

“I don’t care!” Dennis snaps - and it _is_ a snap, honestly, even if his voice does climb a little higher than usual. “I genuinely do not care! Holy shit, why are you still here?”

“Oh my god,” Pale Face Big Glasses mutters, skulking away from the bar - doesn’t even take the bottle or the coke can with her, which is really just bad manners at this point - and Dennis huffs out an exhausted sigh, plucking another cocktail straw out the packet and bending down to grab the last carton of orange juice from under the counter.

He sees it, then. The guy by the door.

The guy by the door - whose dark hair is tousled, whose shirt is unbuttoned just enough that the line of his neck is gracefully exposed; whose long fingers, the nails neat and painted a pale shade of blue, are trailing up over Mac’s forearm. He’s tall and tan and slender, and he looks like the kind of guy who’d take English at college, or maybe something even more pointless, something like Art History; he looks like an asshole, is the point Dennis is trying to make, and his fingers are curling into Mac’s shirt collar the way Dennis’ like to do.

“Eighty nine,” Mac says, peering down at the ID in his hands. “Cool, that’s good -“

“Eighty nine,” the guy confirms. He’s smiling. The straw clenched in Dennis’ hand makes an odd, pained sound as it bends in two.

“Gotta check your friends too, dude,” Mac says - jerks his head and gestures to the gaggle of people waiting in the doorway, and the guy by the door laughs, because he’s a dick like that, and his fingers curl ever tighter into Mac’s shirt.

“I’m here alone.”

Mac frowns; his brow furrowing and his eyes going narrow.

“You came to brunch _alone_?”

“People can brunch alone,” the guy points out. “And I don’t have to be alone for long. When’s your shift end?”

“Oh,” Mac says. He glances down at the hand on his shirt like he never noticed it before. “ _Oh_ , you mean - well I kinda, I kinda already - I have someone. Actually. So.”

Dennis looks down at the punch jug. He reaches for another straw and starts stirring it; it gurgles again, slopping over the side. Mac and the guy are still talking but it’s like a firework’s gone off in the bar, or a bomb - all Dennis can hear is the ringing in his ears.

It’s very strange. Being someone to somebody. Dennis is usually the rebound, or the one night stand, or the ‘met you at a bar and I want to make him jealous’ kind of fuck. The other side of that equation has never really been his specialty. It’s never really belonged to him at all.

“He’s lucky,” the guy by the door is saying, “whoever he is, I mean,” and Mac ducks his head, grinning bashfully, as Dennis’ chest does a final, dizzying flip: he abandons the punch bowl and ducks into the keg room as fast as his shaking legs are willing to carry him.

It’s dark and cold and quiet. It’s what he needs. He sinks down onto the floor, shutting his eyes and leaning his head back against the wall.

“Hey,” the floor vent says.

Dennis jumps.

“Jesus _Christ,_  Charlie.”

“Sorry,” Charlie mutters. There’s a shuffling sound, the scrape of sneakers on rusted metal, and then his head is poking out from the floor, dark hair covered in a dusting of cobwebs and soot. “How’s it going out there?”

“Shit.” Dennis scrubs a hand over his eyes. “People are animals.”

Charlie snorts.

“You’re telling me, bro. Like - Frank made it sound all cool and shit, getting to do chef stuff -”

“Right,” Dennis says, nodding, “exactly, he lured you in -”

“He lured me in, and now I’m ass deep in orders, and these dicks keep sending shit back, so I have to make it all twice -”

“They’re sending shit back?”

“Yeah!” Charlie says, eyes wide. “Like - this one lady, she made me make her pancakes all over again, just ‘cause I got a little something on the first batch. You believe that? A little bit of - I’m talking a _drop_ , not even that - and I’m making this shit from scratch, y’know, there’s knives around, I’m working fast, I don’t have time to bandage up every little cut -”

“It’s rustic,” Dennis offers. Charlie clicks his fingers.

“Exactly, bro. Rustic. Rustic dining. It’s supposed to be a little rough.”

“The roughness is part of the charm.”

Charlie nods.

“Nobody’s getting my charm, though.” He sounds mournful. “None of those dickhole customers upstairs are getting it. None of them.”

Dennis sighs. He reaches out with one hand, eyes still closed, feeling around on the floor until his fingers make contact with something appropriately hair-like, and then he pats a few times halfheartedly.

“I get your charm, Charlie.”

“Thanks,” Charlie mutters. With a muffled grunt he tugs himself up out the vent fully, sitting on the floor next to Dennis with his knees up against his chest. Dennis pulls his fingers back, wrinkling his nose as the full extent of Charlie’s cobweb situation comes to light, and wipes them gingerly on his shirt.

“What about you?” Charlie says, glancing over at him. “Why’re you in here?”

It catches him by surprise - and it must show, judging by the shrewd expression that crosses over Charlie’s face.

“No reason,” Dennis says. “Just, y’know. Looking for a break.”

“I saw Mac talking to some guy earlier,” Charlie says, slowly. “By the door.”

Dennis swallows.

“So what?”

“So… did you see it?”

“Why would I give a shit about who Mac talks to?” Dennis snaps. “And how did you see that anyway, if you’ve been in the vents -”

“I can see a whole lot from the vents, bro,” Charlie says, raising his eyebrows. Dennis looks down at the floor and decides not to think about that too much.

“I’m having trouble with the punch,” he mutters. “That’s why I’m down here.”

Charlie whistles low between his teeth.

“Is it not selling or something?”

“It’s selling too fast,” Dennis says. “That’s the whole problem - we ran out of punch, then we ran out of vodka, Dee had a bitch fit and made me use Everclear, so now the whole thing smells like nuclear waste -”

“Have you tried orange juice?” Charlie suggests. Dennis clenches his hands into fists, swallowing down a yell.

“All right, all right!” Charlie lifts his palms up, looking wounded. “Jesus, dude. Chill. Let’s think about this logically.”

“A bizarre statement coming from you,” Dennis mutters, “but sure. Whatever. Proceed.”

“So you’ve got a base. And you’ve got a mixer in there, I’m guessing. I think you need something to even it all out. Bring some class into it.”

Dennis frowns, thoughtfully.

“Make it classy.”

“Make it classy,” Charlie says, nodding. “Exactly.”

“How do you class up Everclear?”

Charlie shrugs. He leans forward and reaches across Dennis, grabbing a dusty bottle of chocolate liqueur off the shelf behind him and scrubbing his thumb over the peeling, faded label.

“I have some ideas.”

* * *

 

Over the next two hours, three things happen.

The first is this: Charlie, humming to himself as he goes, empties the bottle of chocolate liqueur into the punch bowl. He dips a finger in and licks it clean; shudders, swears, and then says, “Do we have anything cherry-ish lying around? Like - whole cherries, alcohol cherries, I’m talking anything cherry.”

“Not unless you want cough syrup,” Dennis says dryly.

Charlie frowns. He cocks his head to one side.

The second thing involves a bottle of NyQuil (expired, but recently, so it’s all good) being poured into the punch. The punch is tasted. The punch is stirred. It’s a muddy, putrid shade of brown. It smells about as appealing as it looks.

Dennis is tired. His feet hurt. The bar is too loud. There’s chocolate liqueur drying on the countertop and Mac is _all the way_ across the room, so he has nobody to complain to about the punch colour, or the punch smell, or any of the punch’s other unfortunate attributes. He can see how it would happen, almost: how he’d walk over and say something funny, something Mac would laugh at, and how Mac would glance over and grin, focused entirely on him like Dennis was the only thing in the world worth looking at.

The third thing he notices is the silence.

Dennis doesn’t catch it at first - too caught up thinking about English majors, long fingers, and Mac’s shirt collar to notice - but eventually it registers to him that he can hear the jukebox properly for the first time that day. A tinny rendition of Billy Joel’s Piano Man is blaring from the speakers. Billy Joel gets overtaken by The Eagles, who are succeeded by The Everly Brothers - and just as the final chords of Bye Bye Love are fading out, Dennis hears it. The snoring.

“I think,” Dee says, slowly. “I think maybe we poisoned these people.”

Dennis frowns, glances over at her.

“This was your idea, Dee.”

“Yeah, and you made the punch.” She worries her bottom lip between her teeth. “The hell did you put in that crap, by the way, I could smell it from across the room -”

Dennis rolls his eyes. Trust Dee, of all people, to look such a valuable gift horse in the mouth.

“Look,” he insists. “That’s not important. What’s important is that we don’t squander the opportunity in front of us right now.”

Dee’s giving him a look; a sideways, cautious sort of look, that says her allegiance could go either way. She’s always been unnervingly changeable in that regard - sometimes helping Dennis sneak back into the house at 3am, sometimes turning the lights on and yelling for their parents so loud that the neighbours across the street probably heard - but Dennis likes to think that he’s gotten better at reading her over the years, at finding the loyalty and coaxing it into the light.

“I’ll bet,” he says, carefully, “that these assholes were thrifty with their tips, right? Skipped out on a few dollars?” 

Dee frowns.

“I guess. They were pretty stingy.”

“And none of them listened to your jokes, did they?”

“I,” Dee says. “No. They didn’t.”

Dennis lets his eyes move, steady and purposeful, to the slew of sleeping customers in front of them. To the wallets left open on tables, or poking out of pockets.

“Only a little bit,” Dee says, slowly. “Just, y’know, just a couple of -”

“Hospitality payments,” Dennis says. “That’s all it is.”

“They _are_ sleeping at our bar,” says Dee. “I mean… we deserve a little compensation for that -”

“Absolutely,” Dennis agrees. “Absolutely we do.”

“Right?”

“How about,” Dennis says, “you take the schmucks in the booths, and I’ll do the people at the bar, then we tag team the tables? That sound fair to you?”

“Sure,” Dee says; she’s already halfway across the room, her fingers closing around a leather wallet and prying it open.

The room stays eerily silent, except for the sound of snoring and the faint voice of Billy Joel echoing out the jukebox again. It’s easy money - the easiest money Dennis has ever made - but there’s no thrill in it, not even when he plucks a crisp fifty fresh out of some guy’s wallet. Mac’s corner is deserted. The slutty English major is gone, too. Dennis’ eyes stray back to the door again and again, like he can make Mac reappear by force of will alone.

“Just go,” Dee groans. “Jesus Christ, I’ll take the middle tables, get out of here already.”

Dennis swallows.

“What’re you -“

 _Implying, exactly_ \- is how his sentence was going to end - but the look Dee gives him is sharp with warning, as though this is somehow the most irritating thing she’s dealt with all day. She tilts her head towards the keg room.

Dennis rolls his eyes. He turns on his heel.

The more he thinks about Mac, the less he wants to see him - or, to be more exact, the less he wants Mac to see him like this, covered in caking foundation and wearing the same shirt he’s been sweating in for the past eight hours. He wants to disappear from time for a little while, make himself presentable, and then slip neatly back into the world like nothing ever happened. He wants to look good, like the guy by the door. Something that demands to be looked at. Deserving of attention.

 _But what if,_ a quiet little voice says, curling insidiously around his chest, constricting it: _what if Mac’s found someone else to pay attention to?_

That’s probably how Dennis is going to find him. Wrapped up in someone else, getting kissed and touched by someone else; all of this ended, the two of them ended, just like that. The way everything ends. Change always finds him eventually. This is the danger, of course, with giving something part of you. The things you love can change shape just like you can - and sometimes they’ll shift, rebuild themselves, and whatever space they had for you will be gone. Whatever you gave them will be gone, too. There are people who could love the things Dennis loves better than him. The guy by the door is undoubtedly one of them.

He’s reached the keg room, he registers, dully - or maybe he reached it five minutes ago, ten minutes ago, and only noticed now. The world feels full of white noise. The handle doesn’t feel real as he turns it.

Mac’s back is turned. He’s alone. His shirt is sticking to him and riding up as he fiddles with the Coors line. He’s swearing under his breath, his dark hair mussed from where his hands have clearly been running through it, and Dennis’ mouth is suddenly, uselessly dry.

“Hey,” Mac says, glancing over his shoulder. “Dude, d’you know how to change one of these?”

There’s a jab in there about how long they’ve owned this bar for, and how little Mac apparently knows about running it, but Dennis leaves it alone. He takes a step forward, and then another - and he wants Mac to look at him again but he’s not exactly going to ask, so he settles for clearing his throat instead.

“Dennis?” Mac says, and Dennis makes a low, frustrated sort of sound and mutters, “get Charlie to do it,” and Mac rolls his eyes as he licks a stray bead of beer off his thumb.

“Charlie’s downstairs,” he points out. He’s not moving any closer and there’s something itching insistently at the back of Dennis’ neck, behind his eyes. It’s getting stronger with every passing second. He scuffs the toe of his sneaker against the floor. Sometimes it feels like they could get stuck in this kind of stalemate forever: Mac watching him, Dennis looking right back, wanting to close the distance between them but not knowing how to ask.

Mac’s eyes flick down to the floor and then back up to Dennis’ face again, eyebrows raised - not quite a question. Dennis lifts his chin, not quite a nod, and when Mac finally,  _finally_ steps forward, Dennis reaches for him without really knowing why, his fingers curling tight into the fabric of Mac’s shitty green apron and making a home there. He ducks his head and knocks his forehead gently against Mac’s jaw, breathing out with his eyes closed.

“Are you pissed at me?” Mac says. Dennis feels his voice more than hears it, this close. “Or are you pissed at someone else, because honestly, dude, I can’t tell.”

“It’s not you,” Dennis mutters. The line of Mac’s body relaxes, just a little. One of his hands settles in Dennis’ hair, either unaware or unbothered by how horrifyingly sweaty it is. It’s a familiar, steadying weight.

“Charlie?”

“Not Charlie.” Dennis’ reaches up, not opening his eyes, and with one hand repositions Mac’s fingers, so they’re scratching in just the right place. “Customers.”

Mac groans.

“Tell me about it,” he mutters. “Jesus, you’d think these people would have a little class, considering how much money they’re willing to fork out. You know some bitch stamped on my foot just ‘cause I caught her and her pussy boyfriend using fakes?”

Dennis opens his eyes, lifting his head from Mac’s shoulder to eye him curiously.

“You can spot fakes?”

Mac frowns.

“Well, yeah,” he says. “I’m the bouncer, bro. That’s kind of the whole point.”

“I know _that_ ,” Dennis says, “I just… I assumed you handled being a bouncer the same way you handle karate.”

Mac snorts.

“I used to be the one making fake IDs,” he points out. “Like - I’m pretty sure I made you a fake ID at one point. I know what those things look like.”

“Junior year,” Dennis says. The memory unearths itself, unbidden. “Yeah.”

Mac had been all angles back then; gangly, baby faced. The driver’s license he’d proudly handed over to Dennis hadn’t worked at a single bar. Not even the shitty liquor store down the street would take it.

“Exactly!” Mac says. “That’s my point. I’m a professional, dude. I know the lay of the land.”

He’s got that look on his face - cocksure and self-satisfied, chest puffed out like he really thinks he’s all that - Dennis doesn’t know if he wants to kick him or press him up against the wall. He decides on a middle ground, rolling his eyes and leaning forward to press his mouth to Mac’s bottom lip, more of a bite than a kiss. Mac doesn’t hesitate, just cups Dennis’ cheeks in his hands and guides him into something deeper, slower - he tastes like the beer he’s clearly been sneaking sips of, his skin feels faintly sticky with dried sweat, but Dennis wants to touch him anyway. Mac breathes in slow through his nose and shifts his hands to Dennis’ back pockets, leaning forward as he does until they’re pressed together. Nothing exists, after that: just the push and pull of their bodies, the slick heat of Mac’s tongue sliding over his, across his teeth, across his bottom lip.

The anger from before has gone someplace else, he realises. The fear has, too. He doesn’t entirely know where. There’s no heat pricking his palms as he crosses his arms around Mac’s neck. Mac’s hands slide up and down his back, and Dennis lets out a low sound, quiet and unintentional, as a knot of tension slips away from the base of his spine.

“Dennis,” Mac says, softly - and then, with a colossal slam that shakes the frame, the door crashes open.

“Would one of you please,” Dee snaps, “ _please_ , check your goddamn phones once in a while, oh my god -“

Mac’s pulling back a little, shifting away from Dennis like he’s thinking of heading over towards the door; Dennis tightens his grip on Mac’s shirt collar and stubbornly keeps him close.

He doesn’t want to go back out - or finish this shift at all, for that matter. He wants to call it quits and fuck off back home, he wants a shower, food that doesn’t smell like grease; Mac, clean clothes, sleep. Except Mac is pulling away for real now, readjusting his shirt and glancing over at Dee with a frown.

“What’re you bitching about now?”

“They’re waking up,” Dee says. Her voice is grim. Dennis’ stomach drops into his shoes. ”And they’re pissed.”

 

* * *

 

“You drugged us!”

“Nobody was drugged,” Dee says, loudly. “All right? Stop saying that. Don’t put the blame on us just because you can’t handle your alcohol.”

The woman in front of her laughs - it’s a dangerous, unpleasant sound.

“Don’t blame _you?_ Oh, this is - you know what? I’m done. I’m calling the -“

Her hand, Dennis notes, is already closing around the shape of her phone in her pocket. His heartbeat leaps up into his throat.

“Hi,” he says, shoving his way in front of Dee and taking her place at the bar. “Hi there, Dennis Reynolds, part-owner, incredibly sorry about all this - listen, how about a drink? Anything you want. On the house.”

“This is incredibly unprofessional,” the woman snaps. The hand in her pocket, at least, has stilled. Dennis’ pulse slows by a fraction. “I want a refund.”

“If she gets a refund, we want a refund,” a voice from the back calls out. The crowd murmurs in agreement.

“Oh, sure,” Dee sneers. “Yeah, gang up on us like a bunch of assholes -”

“Dee, this is not the way to handle customer disputes,” Dennis hisses. Dee turns to face him, her eyes wild and furious, but before she can get another word out, a deafening metallic shriek echoes out from the back of the bar. Dennis whirls around to face the direction it came from, bewildered, ears ringing, only to see:

“Out!” Frank hollers, appearing like a phantom from the smoky doorway leading to the basement. He’s holding a steam whistle up in one hand. His expression is grim. “Everybody out!”

The crowd’s murmuring gets louder and angrier. Frank blasts the whistle for a second time.

“We’re closed!” he announces. “No more talking. Get your shit and go.”

There’s a moment, Dennis thinks, scanning the sea of angry faces in front of him, where it really could go either way. Frank sets the whistle off for a final time - and finally, _finally_ , the crowd starts to disperse towards the door.

“Nice job,” Mac says, approvingly.

“Told you it was worth keepin’ this thing around,” Frank says, patting the steam whistle with apparent pride. Dennis laughs, although nothing’s really that funny. He’s shaking a little. Mac takes a half-step closer and slides his arm around his shoulders, the way two friends would touch; Dennis is too tired to hide the way he leans into him, against him.

At 3pm on a Wednesday, Paddy’s Brunch officially and permanently closes for business. By 3:15, Dennis finds himself slumped in the same booth he was occupying that morning, snagging the occasional handful of peanuts from the bowl in the centre of the table and listening to Dee and Charlie bicker about something that he has no intention of trying to follow.

The bar is a mess. It’s going to bother him when the adrenaline dies down, he can tell: the syrup stains, the crumbs, the crumpled cocktail umbrellas, but this was the last time. In a week they’ll be in embroiled in something completely different. The world will have shifted into something new, but the five of them will be there at its centre, solid and familiar, and all this - this scheme, its shitty planning, the resultant chaos - will fade like a scar healing over.

Mac appears, two beers in one hand, three in the other, and slides into the booth next to him. Dennis taps his thigh lightly under the table in thanks, unscrewing the bottle closest to him and taking a long swig.

“Mac,” Charlie says. “Dude. I could give a tour, right?”

Mac makes a confused sort of sound as he uncaps his beer.

“Tours for what?”

“Please don’t get them started,” Dennis mutters, wiggling a little in the booth until he’s settled comfortably against Mac’s side.

“I’m the comedienne,” Dee insists. “I have the personality for it, Charlie, just face it - you should drive the bus, I’ll give the tours -“

“I have been in every sewer line from here to Center City,” Charlie says stubbornly. “Okay? All of them. Every single one.”

Mac frowns.

“So?”

“ _So,_  I know Philly! I know it way better than Dee!”

“Wake me up when they’re done,” Dennis mumbles, nosing at Mac’s shoulder. Mac doesn’t reply, too busy arguing with Charlie to say anything - but he squeezes Dennis’ knee gently under the table, and before long Dennis finds himself drifting in and out of consciousness.

The next two hours are slow and lazy. Frank, at some point, disappears into the back office, muttering to himself. Nobody makes any effort to clean up - which Dennis for once is grateful for, since it gives him an excuse to stay sat down for as long as possible. He keeps his hand on Mac’s thigh, tracing nonsensical patterns there; and he’s seriously considering crossing the line from dozing into sleep when Frank bursts through the back office door, his expression set in a firm scowl.

“Hey, buddy,” Charlie says, cautiously. “What’s up?”

“Five thousand,” Frank mutters. He ducks behind the bar and retrieves a bottle of gin, taking a drink straight from it - Dennis and his liver both flinch in sympathy.

“That’s great,” Dee says. “Shit, five grand? That’s more than we make in -“

“I put twenty thousand into this, Deandra!” Frank says, waving the gin bottle wildly. “And we only got five out of it! We are -“

“Since when do you care about how much this shit costs?” Dennis points out. “You bought that ice cream van for Charlie last year.”

“Five _thousand_ ,” Mac says, softly. He sounds awed.

“We could’a got more,” Frank mutters. He sits down in the booth, his expression sour. Charlie pats him on the back.

“C’mon, Frank, it went good! You know what you need, buddy? You need to get back to your roots.”

“My roots?”

“Yeah,” Charlie insists. “You need to come out with your old pal Charlie. Get down to the bridge, get back to nature, smell some natural smells, maybe do some denim hunting. How’s that for an afternoon?”

“The bridge does not have natural smells,” Dee says. “The bridge has sewage smells.”

“You just lost your invite, Dee,” Charlie says, smoothly. “How’s that feel?”

“I mean. I didn’t want it,” says Dee. “So it feels fine. Thank you.”

“What about me? Mac cuts in, sounding slightly insulted. “I’m way better than Dee, where’s my invite?”

“You’re great, dude,” Charlie assures him. “You’re just not - look, you’d try to clean stuff up? And the dirt is kind of what makes the bridge so good. Plus you’d bring Dennis along -”

“I would not!”

”No, he would,” Dennis says, “he clearly would, but why’s that a problem? I’d be a great addition.”

“‘Cause you’d get all bossy,” Charlie explains. “You’d hog all the good denim.”

Dennis frowns at him.

“I wouldn’t want any of the bridge denim.”

“Well, sure, you say that _now_ -”

“Okay, I’m leaving,” Dee interrupts, rubbing her temples. “Whatever. See you losers in the morning.”

Charlie looks affronted, his mouth open like he’s ready to yell something after her as Dee walks to the door. Then:

“I think the bridge sounds like a great idea, Charlie,” Frank says.

The smile that takes over Charlie’s face is comically huge.

“You serious?”

“Absolutely,” Frank says, decisively. “Just what I need. I gotta get away from all this - this clean, pretentious crap. I don’t need it. Real men find their worth in the open sea, and the crabs they hunt, and the things they boil, and that’s how it is. I gotta get back to my roots.”

“Couldn’t have said it better myself,” Charlie says, proudly.

“What is happening?” says Dennis.

“Charlie and I,” Frank announces, “are gonna go down by the bridge. Is what’s happenin’. And you two can clean this place up.”

He gets to his feet - Charlie downs the rest of his beer in one gulp before joining him - and then they’re traipsing over towards the door, toast crumbs and broken glass crunching under their shoes. It slams shut behind them.

“You wanna go home?” Mac says. Dennis glances around one final time at the bar’s devastation.

Stay put and clean. Leave the bar as is and go home with Mac instead, and then get chewed out for it in the morning. It’s barely even a decision at all.

“Sure,” he says. Mac grins.

* * *

 

The homebound traffic seems to understand that he isn’t in the mood to be fucked with. Bowie plays quietly on the radio, just loud enough to fill the silence, and there’s feeling itching under his skin that Dennis can’t parse: exhaustion clashing with the urge to run, to touch something, to be touched. Mac unlocks the apartment door, turning away to hang his filthy apron over the back of one of their kitchen chairs - Dennis takes the opportunity to crowd up behind him. Mac, to give him credit, takes his sudden passenger in his stride, letting Dennis nose at his neck and shoulder as he steps back from the table and wipes his hands across his jeans.

“Hey,” he says, the way he would’ve if Dennis had just walked through the door or called his name from the couch. Dennis grunts in response, not lifting his head.

“You get clingy at the weirdest times, man,” Mac tells him, blithely ignoring Dennis’ silence. “Usually you’re out there busting my balls if I touch you before a shower.”

“Stop talking,” Dennis mutters. Mac shrugs, and it’s oddly intimate from this position, feeling the muscles in his shoulders move.

“You want one?”

“Want what?” Dennis says, too tired to make it sound as irritated as he feels.

“A shower,” Mac tells him. “‘Cause I’m not gonna lie, you reek right now.”

“I don’t _reek_ ,” Dennis snaps, and he doesn’t need to see Mac to know he’s rolling his eyes - and then Mac turns around in his arms, and, yes, he is rolling his eyes. Called it.

“You have a smell,” Mac amends. “There’s a smell to you. That’s all I’m saying.”

“You’re wearing two colognes,” Dennis says, dark and mutinous, as Mac shepherds him towards the bathroom.

“And I smell great,” Mac argues, flicking on the light. “That’s the beauty of the two cologne system, bro. One cologne lasts for like, eight hours - you put two together, that’s sixteen hours of Drakkar Noir.”

“It baffles me,” Dennis says, “to this day, that you graduated high school.”

Mac rolls his eyes up to the ceiling as he tugs his shirt off over his head. His stubble is particularly dark against his cheeks in this light, and it’s easier to see the faint specks of grey running through it; the freckles dusted over his shoulders, his arms. Mac, Dennis notes, is going to be one of those assholes who has the audacity to grow old gracefully without trying. He’s shrugging off his button-down, about to say something along those lines, when the back of his neck flares like someone’s holding a lit match against it.

“Dennis?”

Dennis hisses through his teeth as he drops the shirt to the floor. Slowly, he moves his arms down to his sides again.

“Dude -“

“No,” Dennis bites out. The burning ache washes down his spine, settling at the small of his back and smouldering there. It’s too much stimulation - a radio flicking erratically between stations, a lightning bolt cracking, trying to elbow your way through downtown at rush hour. It hurts.

“Dennis.”

Mac steps closer and raises his hands, palms up, the way he does when the mangy cats in the alley hiss at him for getting too close. Dennis swallows.

“S’fine,” he says, thickly. “I - don’t touch me, it’s fine. Just… give me a minute.”

“All right, bro,” Mac says, easy and quiet. He takes a step back again and Dennis pulse slows, infinitesimally. “Let me get the water going.”

Dennis shuts his eyes and floats for a while when Mac steps away fully. The pain’s intensity drifts in and out of focus. With every particularly strong flicker, strange shapes and patterns appear in the blackness behind his closed eyes like fireworks - there’s a name for them, he knew it back in college, but he’s forgotten it now.

The shower gurgles and hums as it comes to life. Mac’s footsteps pad across the linoleum. The hand around Dennis’ wrist doesn’t catch him by surprise, but the way Mac breath skates over his neck as he presses a brief kiss there does.

“How’s it feel?”

“Like shit,” Dennis mutters, eyes still closed. Mac snorts. He kisses Dennis’ neck again; undoes his fly, the buckle of his belt, so Dennis can step easily out of his jeans, and he strokes his warm hands up and down Dennis’ calves when he flinches at the ache in his spine.

Nobody ever just gives. Touch, in Dennis’ experience, is a commodity that’s always conditional and always priced - people give you things because they want things. They want things from you. If someone touches you like this, talks to you like this, that’s a transaction being put into place: you owe them back, whether you like it or not. Liking it isn’t the point. It’s the principle of the thing. Dennis can’t remember the last time his body was wholly his - but who can, surely?

“Come on,” Mac says. Dennis leans against him, eyes open and his vision hazy as he’s gently tugged forward towards the shower.

It’s very unfair of Mac, he decides, and kind of a dick move, that he never makes it clear what he wants in return. Everything would be much easier that way. As it is they end up in situations like this one, where Mac gives and gives, apparently happy to keep doing so indefinitely, until Dennis cuts him off and braces for the moment when Mac asks, inevitably, for payback - which hasn’t happened yet, but is going to. The only question is when.

“Water feel alright?”

Mac glances at him from under damp splayed out lashes, one hand pushing back his slick hair to keep it from his eyes. Dennis’ chest cinches up uncomfortably.

“It’s fine,” he mutters. It isn’t, since Mac always runs it a little too hot. He’s too tired to kick up a fuss.

Dennis is wary of a lot of things - creamer in coffee, dogs, tax audits, grey hairs - but moments like this are pretty high up there on the list. Mac’s palms push gently on his shoulders, encouraging him to turn around; and then his thumbs are circling over the soft skin where Dennis’ neck meets his spine, pressing down and kneading. He’s humming something under his breath, soft and a little off-key. _Roll With It,_ Dennis realises. The chorus.

“Are you singing Winwood?”

“Wrong decade, dude,” Mac says. He thumbs a particular stubborn knot just at the top of Dennis’ spine. “Larry Carlton.”

Dennis rolls his eyes.

“He covered it,” he points outs, reaching behind him to poke Mac accusingly in the stomach. “Winwood wrote it. That makes it a Winwood song.”

There’s a short pause. He can practically hear Mac’s frown.

“You sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure,” Dennis says. “Mac, of the two of us, who has a deeper knowledge of Steve Winwood’s discography?”

“I mean,” says Mac. His hands move, settling about halfway down Dennis’ spine. “Me, probably. I feel like it’s close.”

“You feel like it’s close,” Dennis echoes, slowly.

“Yeah,” Mac says. “‘Cause I know he’s your guy, whatever, but you’re always making me listen to those goddamn tapes, bro. I probably picked it up by, like… by that -“

“Osmosis,” Dennis provides.

“Exactly,” Mac says, sounding satisfied. “That one.”

He moves his hands back up to Dennis’ shoulders, pressing down lightly, and Dennis realises that his body has settled without asking: he feels loose limbed and heavy, comfortably warm from the hot water. Maybe Mac has a point about that after all. He leans back against the steady solid heat of Mac’s bare chest, eyes closed.

“Did I win?”

Dennis blinks back into consciousness, frowning up at him.

“Win what?”

“The argument,” Mac says. “Because of the osmosis thing.”

Dennis snorts. He reaches up and pats Mac - gently, fondly - on the cheek.

“No.”

Mac’s face falls.

“C’mon, though,” he protests. “Dennis, I made some good points. Admit it.”

Dennis hums. He uncurls himself from Mac and stretches his arms carefully, wary of the faint soreness in his neck, before reaching for the skin cream he keeps on the shower rack.

“Dennis,” Mac repeats, bordering on a whine.

“You can either get out now,” Dennis tells him, “or you can have this on your face. Your choice.”

Mac wrinkles his nose.

“Dick,” he mutters. He shuffles backwards and steps out onto the bathmat, dripping all over the tiles, but before he can reach for a towel Dennis is tugging him back in close, one hand caught around his wrist, pressing a kiss to his mouth that ends in a bite on his bottom lip. He shoves at Mac’s chest lightly when he’s done. Mac stumbled back; just stares for a moment, a little dazed. The look on his face, the upwards curve of his mouth, sets something off in Dennis’ chest that feels like a moth fluttering around a porch light.

“Out,” Dennis warns. He uncaps the skin cream as threateningly as he can. Mac rolls his eyes, snatching up his towel and padding out the door, leaving a faint trail of steam in his wake. The moth-near-a-porch-light feeling twinges as he moves out of sight, but Dennis ignores it. Skincare, in his opinion, isn’t something you rush. No matter how distracting some variables in your life may be.

Wash first. Exfoliator second. Third in line is a little amber bottle of toner, borrowed (permanently) from Dee. Then: moisturiser, eye cream, lip balm. It all takes an age to sink in properly, which is how Dennis ends up staring at his own face for five minutes straight under the murky fluorescence of the bathroom light.

What is it about bathroom mirrors, Dennis thinks, prodding doubtfully at his crow’s feet, that makes them so uniquely unforgiving? Lighting, probably - and the uneven flush that comes from hot showers rarely does anyone any favours. Which is fine, since nobody ever sees Dennis like this, or with his cheeks this mottled; they see him with a little foundation, a little eyeliner, some lip gloss when the weather’s right. Nobody ever sees him in this light except Mac.

He doesn’t remember how to show someone what's underneath. How to feel comfortable with it. Which is why it makes his hackles rise when he realises, after the moment has been and gone, how much Mac touches him when they're alone; how closely, and how carefully, and how he doesn’t ask for anything in return.

It isn’t sustainable. Eventually Mac will realise that, bled dry of the ability to give. Once that happens, they'll drift apart.

Dennis swallows. he stretches his hands out by his side, clenching and unclenching his fists, until the urge to smash the mirror reluctantly retreats.

“Hey,” Mac says, glancing up as Dennis walks into their room. “How’s -“

“Why do you never let me pay you back?”

There’s a long, uneasy silence.

“What?”

“You never…”

Dennis swallows. He forces the anger and suspicion down and relies instead on a voice that sounds painfully casual, not entirely his own.

“You never let me pay you back, man.”

“Pay me back,” Mac says slowly. Like he’s testing the words out on his tongue. He doesn’t sound angry. He doesn’t exactly sound happy, either. Dennis’ stomach twists.

“What’s your problem?” he snaps, stepping back and crossing his arms. Mac’s either confused or he’s faking it well, his eyebrows drawn up in concern.

“I don’t have one, dude, I’m not -“

“You want to fuck me?” Dennis’ voice is getting louder. “You like that. We can do that.”

“Dennis -“

“Spit it out,” Dennis demands, and he’s taking deep gulps of air that aren’t deep enough, shaking in a way that feels like his body is trying to escape its own skin. “Tell me what it is, I’ll do it. Just tell me what it is.”

Mac’s fists are clenched by his sides; his jaw’s clenched, too. This is good. This is something he knows. It’s always laughably easy to coax Mac’s anger out, except:

“I don’t get it,” Mac says. “I - Dennis. Seriously, I don’t know what this conversation is about.”

“It’s about you always doing this shit for me!” Dennis snaps - loudly, maybe too loud. “You always do it, you always shove yourself in when I don’t need you, and you never want to talk about it -“

“That’s what this is?” Mac says, blankly. “I - this is all ‘cause I helped you shower?”

Dennis swallows.

“I just want to know what your endgame is.”

“My _endgame?_ ”

“Answer the question,” Dennis hisses. Mac throws up his arms in defeat.

“What do you want me to say?”

“Tell me what you’re doing!” Dennis shouts. His voice breaks in the middle.

“I’m not doing anything, all right? Why do I have to have a reason, dude, why can’t I-“

“You’re controlling me,” Dennis says, furiously bitter, the realisation unfolding in him like a map. “You’re - you want to keep me under your thumb, so you can keep your fucking tabs on me -”

“Dennis,” Mac says - he isn’t expecting it to hurt so much, hearing that pained note in his voice. “C’mon -“

“That’s it, isn’t it? That’s why you _insist_ on doing everything, you’re manipulating -“

“I don’t care about that!” Mac shouts. “Jesus, Dennis, I don’t give a shit, I just want to be good for you!”  
  
The silence that fills the room is so complete, it’s like standing in a vacuum.  
  
“I,” Dennis says. The air feels thick in his mouth. “What - what are you -“

“And I like doing it,” Mac mutters, his eyes fixed down on the floor. It slips out like something shameful. “All right? I don’t want anything, ‘cause I like doing this shit for you, you don’t _owe me_ , or whatever, so can we just-“

Dennis wants to accuse him of lying. He would, if he weren’t frozen still. As it is he watches Mac instead, the way he scuffs his bare feet over the floor, the low slump of his shoulders.

“You like it,” he says, cautiously. “As in, it gets you off.”

Mac glances up at him, exasperated.

“Yeah, dude,” he says, “‘I’m really jerking it to dealing with your bad back in the shower -“

“All right,” Dennis snaps, “whatever, explain it to me, then. I’m not following.”

Mac groans.

“Dennis, can we drop it -”

“No,” Dennis says. Mac glares at him, a furrow forming between his brows - Dennis just raises an eyebrow, watching him silently. Mac’s got stubbornness but no patience; Dennis, meanwhile, has far, far too much of both. Push comes to shove, he can do this for hours. Mac won’t last ten minutes.

“It’s like,” Mac says hesitantly into the silence. “It’s… shit, dude, I don’t know. I don’t know how to say it.”

Dennis’ stomach drops, unsteadily. He stares at Mac again, that way he did before, and Mac breathes out slow as he glances up at the ceiling.

“It’s like, when I… when you let me do this shit for you, it feels like - like the Eagles won the Superbowl, and I’m the guy who pulled it off. ‘Cause you never used to let me get this close to you, dude, _ever_ , even when you were right off the deep end, and I -“

Mac cuts off. He looks over at the window like he’s considering jumping out of it; Dennis, to be honest, can relate.

“You have no idea what that was like,” Mac mutters, eventually. “Watching you do all that shit to yourself.”

 _Maybe you should’ve said something_ , Dennis thinks, but it’s a reactionary bitterness that fades as soon as it rises. Mac couldn’t have said anything. Dennis wouldn’t have listened. He still doesn’t, sometimes; change is an unsteady and slow growing thing. Their kind of change, especially - the one they’re sharing. Dennis is always going to suspect the very worst; Mac will always have faith in things he shouldn’t. It’s all right. They’ll be all right. Hopefully.

“Okay,” Dennis says.

Mac frowns.

“Okay?”

“Yeah,” Dennis says. “I mean. I still don’t get it, doesn’t mean jackshit to me, but -”

“It makes sense,” Mac protests, frowning in that way he does when he thinks something deserves to be a Big Deal, capital letters and all - and the urge to kiss him hits Dennis so strongly that it’s like a physical blow to the chest.

Mac doesn’t see it coming, his brow still furrowed, mouth parted around an argument that never makes it out as Dennis leans in and kisses him gently, teasing the swell of bottom lip until Mac shudders and pushes forward, letting their bodies align as he fists a hand in Dennis’ hair to keep him close. His hands trace up and down Dennis’ stomach, fingers skating over bare skin.

“Is this a pattern?” he says into Dennis’ mouth - it comes out messy, a little muffled. Dennis doesn’t stop grinding against Mac’s thigh but he does (rather thoughtfully, in his opinion) drag his mouth away from Mac’s for a few seconds or so.

“What?”

“We settle…” Mac swallows as Dennis mouths lightly at his collarbone. His hands move up to stroke through Dennis’ hair, shaking. “We settle pretty much all our fights like this, dude. Seems like a pattern to me.”

“From where I’m standing,” Dennis points out, fighting to keep his voice level as he gives into temptation and grinds against Mac’s thigh again, “it just looks efficient.”

“Dennis,” Mac says, breathless - half-irritated, half like he wants to pin Dennis to the nearest flat surface - and Dennis laughs against his throat, kissing the flush that’s climbing Mac’s neck. The hands in his hair tug his head up, just sharp enough to feel painful, and then Mac _really_ kisses him, slides his tongue into Dennis’ mouth and lets the rhythm build from there. It’s long and lazy; Dennis doesn’t bother with quiet, and every soft sound makes Mac kiss him deeper, pull him closer, his hands still curled tight in Dennis’ hair.

He wants, suddenly and so intensely that it borders on painful, to curl around Mac and press himself into every hollow, to touch every freckle and birthmark on his skin. He doesn’t want anyone else to touch where he’s touching, but if they ever did, he wants them to know he was here first: for them to somehow read the leylines of Mac’s body and find traces of him. He’s there already, probably. It’s what they get for sharing each other’s space for so long.

Mac laughs when Dennis lunges for him and wraps his arms around his neck, pushing him backwards insistently until they make contact with the mattress. Mac spins them, right at the last second, so Dennis is the one being pressed down, being hovered over, and it sends a shock of something warm flooding down to the pit of his stomach.

“Stay here,” he says, already sounding a little breathless. Dennis rolls his eyes and leans back on his elbows, taking in the view as Mac ducks under the bed and reappears again a second later, empty handed, his cheeks flushing pink and his eyes blown dark.

“Bedside table, asshole.”

Mac frowns at him, indignant. He yelps when Dennis’ heel makes contact with his ass, nearly dropping the lube as he grabs it from the drawer - but he makes it onto the bed again mostly unscathed.

“Dick,” he mutters, rubbing one hand over his eyes.

“Yeah,” Dennis agrees, and then, softer, in the voice that always guarantees Mac’s attention: “come here.”

He does, the way Dennis knew he would. Mac’s body slips over his, his thighs settling on either side on Dennis’ hips as he pushes him back down onto the sheets. He brushes their noses together the way he does when he wants to be kissed, so Dennis kisses him, heavy and slow, lifting his hands up and settling them in Mac’s hair.

This is his, the way Mac licks and bites a trail down from his mouth to the tender skin below his throat. This is his too, the way Mac’s body feels pressed down on him, a warm and solid weight. The slow press of Mac’s finger inside him, slicked with lube that he hasn’t warmed quite enough, and the way Mac laughs against his mouth when Dennis shudders at the cold and bites his lip in reproach, it belongs to him.

“Sorry,” Mac says, between kisses, “sorry, I get it, I’ll be careful -“

“You are terrible at this,” Dennis informs him - which he doesn’t think is that inaccurate, since cold lube is an entry level mistake - and then he keens, breathless and low, when Mac slips a second finger in, when he crooks them up and moves them slowly in and out. The stretch is a steady heat that gives way, slowly, to something hotter that curls in the pit of Dennis’ stomach. His legs are wrapped tight around Mac’s hips, one hand clenched in the sheets and the other stroking lazily over the length of his cock, half-hard. He catches a glimpse of Mac above him, his red cheeks and mouth, his dark hair mussed from its treatment at Dennis’ hands. He’s got that look on his face that he used to get when he thought Dennis wasn’t looking, but multiplied by a hundred - Dennis has seen it a hundred times, a thousand, but never up close.

They could really be something, he thinks. The two of them. It only took them half a lifetime to figure it out.

Mac’s nose brushes up against his.

“What are you thinking about?”

Dennis hums.

“The brunch scheme,” he says, deciding on a whim to be truthful, kissing the corner of Mac’s mouth to soothe his frown. It doesn’t work.

“Your back still hurting?” Mac asks, running his free hand over Dennis’ chest, down to his thighs - Dennis sighs long-sufferingly and pushes them both up, positioning himself carefully on Mac’s lap.

“No,” he says, “idiot, it’s not - look. You hated it in the end, right? The whole plan.”

“Well, yeah,” Mac says. “All of us did, I think. It sucked ass.”

“Exactly,” Dennis says. “That’s my point. This was awful.”

Mac shifts his thighs under Dennis, resettling; the sheets rustle.

“What’re you getting at?”

“The group dynamic’s been off,” Dennis says. “I’ll admit it. That’s how Frank managed to sneak this one past us, but - okay, stay with me for a second - we have an opportunity here, Mac.”

“We do?”

Dennis kisses him, just to make sure he stays focused. Mac’s watching curiously as he pulls back.

“This whole thing happened because we were outnumbered, right?”

“Right,” Mac says.

“Frank got cocky, there was nothing in place to shut him down. And this whole scheme was way too much work, considering the payoff. But if we -“

“I’m not gonna do what you say all the time, dude,” Mac points out. “If that’s what this is, I’m not into it.”

He’s scowling. Dennis rolls his eyes.

“Mac,” he says. “Baby. Listen to me.”

“I am listening,” Mac mutters. His cheeks have reddened, just a little.

“If we worked together,” Dennis says, “as _equals_ , we could get Dee and Charlie on our side when it counted. And if we had that -“

“You’re saying we pull a Rambo,” Mac says, slowly. “Like when he teams up with that army guy.”

Dennis kisses him again.

“Exactly.”

“Four against one,” says Mac. He starts to grin. Dennis grinds down on his fingers again and feels Mac’s cock, resting half-hard between them, jerk against his stomach.

“ _Exactly_.”

Mac’s smile is beautiful to look at and difficult to kiss - Dennis tries anyway, ducking his head and cupping Mac’s face in his hands, pressing his mouth to the curve of Mac’s bottom lip. He reaches one hand between them and takes Mac’s cock in hand.

“Let me suck you off,” he murmurs, stroking lightly over the head. Mac shudders.

“But I want...”

Dennis kisses him and lets Mac’s tongue into his mouth, wet hot, sucking on the tip for a second before pulling back a little and letting them settle into a slow rhythm, pressing tiny kisses to Mac’s open mouth, his thumb sliding up over the head of his cock again. Mac pulls back and just looks at him for a second, his chest heaving.

“Yeah,” he says, faintly. “Yeah, all right.”

It’s all the initiative Dennis needs to slide off the bed and onto his knees, shuffling forward to move between Mac’s legs where they dangle off the mattress. Just as Mac’s hands sink into his hair Dennis ducks his head, impatient and tired of waiting, so he can lick a long, slow line up the underside of his cock, taking the head in his mouth and teasing the slick wetness that’s already there. The sound Mac makes as he shudders, as his hands clench tighter in Dennis’ hair, is perfect. It pushes Dennis forward: he relaxes his throat, eyes shut, moving his head further down and taking Mac further into his mouth, his hands on Mac’s thighs.

“Jesus,” Mac breathes out. “Shit, dude, that’s so good.”

Dennis wants to be annoyed (how many times, at this point, has he told Mac not to use that word in bed) - but it’s difficult, between the praise and Mac’s fingers carding through his hair, and Mac’s cock sitting heavy on his tongue. He takes him deeper instead, sliding his mouth up to the head and then back down again in a rhythm that has Mac’s hips jerking forward, and Mac makes a sound that’s maybe a curse word, maybe a moan, and his grip on Dennis’ hair tightens. He pushes Dennis’ head down like he’s barely aware he’s doing it, but Dennis takes it in stride and swallows him deeper, trying to keep the same rhythm as before - he moves one of his hands off of Mac’s thighs and palms the ache between his legs, thrusts into his loose fist a few times to take the edge off. Mac makes another tight, bitten off sort of sound; Dennis glances up to find him watching with his eyes transfixed. He can feel Mac’s cock jerk in his mouth.

“Come up,” Mac says thickly, tugging on his hair. “Come up here, let me -“

Dennis’ knees ache a little as he stands up, and his throat is aching too: but it’s worth it for the way Mac pulls him onto his lap and kisses him, his breath hot against Dennis’ mouth. His hands are down on Dennis’ ass as Dennis folds his arms around Mac’s neck, straddling Mac’s hips just right so their cocks brush up against each other. Dennis grinds down impatiently and Mac laughs, breathless; reaches for the lube on the other side of the bed and slicks his fingers.

“Hurry up,” Dennis bites out against his mouth. Mac kisses him briefly, just catching the corner of his bottom lip.

“Don’t be a bitch about it,” he murmurs - and if it’s supposed to sound reproachful he’s failed entirely, too warm and too low. He lets Dennis bite down on his bottom lip as he strokes over his hole with two fingers, fingers him open again slowly. It’s easier, this time around; enough so that he adds a third in the same minute, and Dennis shudders as he lifts his hips a little and drops back down. He kisses blindly at Mac’s neck, just for something occupy his mouth and muffle the sounds that keep escaping, his arms still curled around Mac’s neck and keeping him steady as the rest of his body slumps down.

“Come on,” he mutters. Mac’s free hand trails down the line of his back, but he doesn’t make any effort to move - which is total bullshit, in Dennis’ opinion, because he can feel the way Mac’s hips are thrusting up underneath him, hear the ragged edges of his breathing.

“Mac, come _on_ ,” Dennis says, and then he ducks his head into Mac’s shoulder and lets out a low sound as Mac’s fingers slow inside him, stroking teasingly, not quite enough.

“Sit up a little,” Mac tells him, kissing down his jaw; and finally, finally, taking his fingers away and slicking his cock. The pressure makes Dennis’ breath catch at first, the fullness too - and then he rocks his hips down, back up, and it all gives way into something better.

Mac pushes him back until Dennis is sprawled out on the sheets with Mac’s body pressing down on him. He kisses him slow as he thrusts forward, his forearms resting on the sheets on either side of Dennis’ head.

“Happy now?” he says against Dennis’ mouth. Dennis rolls his hips, encouraging Mac deeper.

“Not entirely,” he breathes out. “Maybe you should put some effort in.”

It catches him by surprise, the way Mac braces himself on his flattened palms and grinds against the place inside him that makes Dennis keen, makes him scratch his nails down Mac’s back and curl his toes. Mac does it again, and again, his hips working smoothly between Dennis’ thighs, and it’s so good he could cry, he could tear the whole world down.

“Fuck,” he hears himself saying, as if from afar, “fuck, baby, like that, that’s it,” and he can feel Mac’s mouth hot on his neck, pressing messy kisses there, trailing down to a nipple and closing around it. Dennis swears again, hips jerking up; his hands in Mac’s hair and tugging hard, and Mac bites a little harder, soothing the sting with his tongue before pulling back. Dennis coaxes him down again with the hands in his hair, kissing his open mouth, uncaring about finesse, and Mac’s thrusts stay in rhythm with the rolling of Dennis’ hips. He’s getting close, though - Dennis can tell from the way his arms are shaking, the sweat that’s trailing in a long line down the flushed arc of his throat.

He waits for one second, and another, before he pushes upright, waiting for the best moment to catch Mac off guard. It works, because half a second later Mac’s blinking up at him from the mattress, dazed, his hands on Dennis’ hips to keep him steady. Dennis has him by his wrists, his hands keeping them down on the pillow above his head, Dennis has him by the mouth, kissing him slick and messy as he grinds down on Mac’s cock.

“Den,” Mac says, cracked, “Dennis - Jesus,” and he trails off into a moan that Dennis swallows as he kisses him again, taking Mac in as deep as he can and rolling his hips firmly, his thighs aching and his whole body feeling heavy and hot. When Mac comes he can feel it; the way Mac’s entire body seems to stutter in its rhythm, a sudden tightness that gives way like a flood until he’s loose limbed, breathing hard, looking up at Dennis like he doesn’t know how to look at anything else. Dennis rides him through it, right up until Mac’s shaking fingers take over from his cock and slip inside him easy, the newfound slickness there making everything feel clearer, hotter, more intense. One of Dennis’ hands move down to his own cock, leaking and hard where it's caught in the tight space between them, and he sits on Mac’s thighs and thrusts into his loose fist once, twice, as Mac’s fingers crook up and find that space in him again, and then he follows Mac down, losing himself in a wave that swallows him whole. Mac fucks him through it, little aching sparks of heat flickering through Dennis’ stomach, coaxing his orgasm into drawing itself out and eventually slipping into a full, easy warmth that covers him entirely like a blanket.

“Holy shit,” Mac breathes out. Dennis laughs, and even that feels like it takes a monumental amount of effort. He slips off Mac’s fingers, off his lap, kneeling unsteadily onto the sheets.

“Sorry,” he says dazedly, noticing the come on Mac’s stomach. “About that.”

Mac leans up, kisses him softly. He reaches over the side of the bed and grabs a shirt off the floor to wipe himself clean with. Dennis wrinkles his nose.

“You’re not using that on me,” he warns. Mac snorts.

“I figured,” he says. Dennis hums, lies down on his front next to Mac and shuts his eyes.

“We’re good at that,” he mumbles into the sheets. He hears Mac’s footsteps going to the bathroom, hears the tap running, hears him walking back.

“Yeah?” Dennis feels a towel moving over his thighs, between them. He reaches behind him, taking it from Mac’s grip, and sits up as he finishes cleaning himself off.

“Yeah,” Dennis says, yawning. “Goddamn.”

He finishes up with towel, tossing it off the bed and onto the floor, and lies back down again. The heady, heavy warmth slips over him again like honey.

“Oh, shit,” Mac says, sleepily. “Dude. Dinner.”

Dennis groans.

“Forget it.”

“Nope.” Mac’s struggling upright, running a hand through his hair. “No, we gotta eat. Otherwise your stomach acid gets all out of whack. I’m serious,” he adds insistently, as Dennis takes the opportunity to hide his face in his pillow.

“I’m not moving,” Dennis says, voice muffled. He hears Mac rifling through the bedside table, and then something plasticky hits him on the back. He reaches behind himself blindly with one hand until his fingers close around it.

“It’s got peanut butter,” Mac says, as though Dennis is the kind of person who can be lured away from a pillow by the promise of a cereal bar.

Dennis lets out a slow, long suffering sigh. He drags himself upright.

“I hate you,” he says. Mac shrugs.

They doze a little after the cereal bars are over and done with - Dennis could’ve probably slept through til dawn if Mac hadn’t pushed his head off his stomach and sat up, stretching, before coaxing him out of bed and dragging him into the bathroom. He brushes his teeth while Dennis carefully applies night cream to his cheeks - and Dennis brushes his while Mac sticks his face under the faucet for five seconds or so, shaking his head afterwards and spraying water around the bathroom. His hair is still damp when he curls around Dennis under the sheets, his soft shirt pressed up against Dennis’ back, but it’s difficult to find the energy to be annoyed with him for it. Dennis leans back against him, eyes ready to slip closed, when:

“I think,” Mac says, quietly. “I think I’m like this ‘cause of my dad, y’know?”

Dennis shifts in the dark, turning over to face him. Mac leans into the crook of his neck once he’s close enough, nosing at his collarbone.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” One of Mac’s hands has found his hips under the sheets. He’s stroking the skin there slowly. “I guess.”

 _Like what?_ Dennis would say, but it’s a redundant question. He’s seen the answer in the flesh a thousand times over - false confidence, false bravery, anger, alcoholism. The way Mac carries violence like a second skin. The way he curls close around Dennis when they sleep, as though the night is something Mac can keep him safe from.

“For what it’s worth,” Dennis says, eventually, “I’m absolutely like this because of my dad. Or lack thereof.”

It doesn’t actually hurt all that much to admit it. It doesn’t feel like anything could have the power to hurt here - in the warmth and safety of the dark, with Mac’s body pressed up against his. Mac makes a soft little sound against his neck. It could’ve been a laugh, maybe, if he weren’t so tired.

“You got one hell of a deal, huh?”

Dennis nods.

“Three shitty parents,” he mutters, yawning. “All for the price of one.”

Mac leans forward and kisses him, just briefly. Dennis turns over again, pulling Mac’s arm up over his hip, so his hand is resting on the soft place just above where Dennis’ stomach meets his thighs.

“Go to sleep,” he says, quietly. Mac’s nose skates over the back of his neck, the hollow of his collarbone. One of his calves slips between Dennis’ own.

“Yeah,” Mac murmurs - and there it is, the soft, muzzy note in his voice that means he’s finally shut down whatever thought was keeping him awake. He nestles closer, his nose nudging against Dennis’ neck again, and then his breathing evens out into a pattern that’s deep and slow. Dennis shuts his eyes and follows him.

* * *

 

Morning, when it comes, announces itself with the faint tapping of rain against the bedroom window. Dennis blinks his way slowly into consciousness, sleep still clinging to him - rolls over, reaching out with one hand for a warm body to pull in close, only to find the other side of the bed empty. The faint smell of coffee wafts in from under the door, and it’s enough to make Dennis push himself upright, grimacing at the ache in his ass and his thighs, and pad barefoot towards the door.

Mac’s sat on the kitchen table, legs swinging, which Dennis usually snipes at him for. He lets it go this time around, if only because it makes it easy for him to stand between Mac’s thighs and slide his arms around his neck - Mac accepts him there without fuss, just rests one warm hand one Dennis’ hip and takes a sip of his coffee with the other. His body feels warm under the soft fabric of his shirt. He smells faintly of sweat and sleep.

“What d’you wanna do today?” Mac says, the words shaping themselves around a yawn. Dennis hums, contemplative.

It's a slow, rainy Sunday. Nothing to prepare for, nothing to dread, no responsibilities - just the two of them and the whole day unfurled in front of them like a map, clean and new.

“No Paddy’s.”

Mac nods.

“Let’s do something, though,” he says, insistently. “I want to do something.”

Dennis reaches out to steal a sip from the coffee mug.

“Movie?”

“We’re still banned from the theatre,” Mac points out. “For like. Two more years.”

Dennis frowns.

“There’s more than one theatre in Philly.”

“Well,” Mac says. “Yeah. But that’s _our_ theatre, dude. We can’t just switch now, that’s not how it works.”

“Fine,” Dennis concedes, because this line of questioning can only lead to more stubbornness. “All right, your turn.”

“Waterpark,” Mac says, without missing a beat. Dennis rolls his eyes.

“Too cold. Plus, too late in the day. Takes us - what, forty minutes? We’ll miss the opening. And that place is ninety percent piss by noon.”

Mac’s excited smile droops.

“Shit.”

“Mhmm,” Dennis says. He puts the coffee mug down on the table behind them and muffles a yawn into Mac’s neck.

“Wait,” Mac says, slowly. “Hold on. Sheets.”

Dennis pauses, nosing at his throat.

“What about them?”

“You’ve been bitching about our sheets for weeks, dude. You wanna get new ones?”

Dennis is quiet for a moment, thinking it over, because that… isn’t a terrible idea. For once.

“I get final say,” he warns. Mac snorts.

“Obviously.”

“Just making sure you’re aware,” Dennis says, sleepily. He rests his head fully in the crook of Mac’s shoulder, closing his eyes. He feels Mac’s body shift as he reaches for the coffee mug, hears him take a slow sip.

Dennis is about to suggest that they postpone all this until the afternoon, so they have time to doze on the couch and make fun of whatever shitty reality show they end up stumbling across, when his phone buzzes on the countertop. He groans, tugging himself away from Mac reluctantly and sliding his thumb over the screen.

“I’m _busy_ , Dee -“

“The basement’s on fire,” Dee says in a rush. “Dennis, holy shit, the basement’s on fire.”

Dennis goes still. The air in the room shifts, becoming thick and dream-like, as though he’s fallen through a black hole.

“Excuse me?”

“The bar, genius!” Dee’s voice is hoarse, like she’s been yelling for a while. “Our bar! There is a fucking firestorm in the basement of our bar, can you please, _please_ , just get down here already -“

“Dee,” Dennis says, “Dee, just - Jesus Christ, okay, I’m coming, don’t -”

The call drops.

“Holy shit,” Mac says, softly.

“It’s gonna be fine.” Dennis’ voice sounds distant, like it’s coming from someone else. “It’s - we’ll be fine. We always figure it out.”

“Fire, though,” Mac says. “That’s…”

He swallows.

“Mac.” Dennis makes it sharp enough to get his attention. Then, softer, once he has it: “It’s gonna be fine. We’ll figure it out.”

“Paddy’s is on _fire_ ,” Mac snaps, “or did you miss that part?”

He’s trembling now, running a hand through his hair and looking around wildly like he’s trying to find one of the rosaries he keeps stashed around the apartment, his breathing shallower by the second. It’s a shot in the dark, stepping towards him the way he does, and Dennis doesn’t know whether he’s expecting Mac to flinch, or to hit him, or both.

“Mac.”

Mac’s gaze snaps onto him, magnetic, his dark eyes fixed on Dennis like he’s the only thing in the world. His breathing finally starts to slow.

“You with me?”

“Yeah,” Mac says. “I… sorry.”

He shakes himself, shuddering. Dennis takes his hand, running on instinct more than anything else, and a spark of relief, small but unmistakable, flares in his chest when Mac squeezes it.

The walk down from their apartment to the street is a fever dream. Dennis smells phantom smoke the whole drive over; hits three red lights and blasts through each one, barely even hearing the angry sea of car horns and road rage he leaves in his wake. Mac gives terse directions from the passenger seat, fingers drumming a furious pattern on the knee of his jeans, and they’ve done this drive a thousand times over but Dennis gets it: the fear and the nerves, the unbearable desire to do something, _anything_ , that could possibly be useful.

He wonders if they’re too late already. What Paddy’s will look like: whether the roof’s caved in, whether the walls are stained black. The walls were the last thing to go, back at the old apartment. They’d encompassed the rest of the rubble like a strange, scorched shell - beyond repair, according to the dick of a surveyor who’d walked Dennis through the ruins. It hadn’t mattered that they were still standing.

“Dennis,” Mac says. His voice hits Dennis like cold water. “Dude. We’re here.”

Here’s the good: Paddy’s is still standing, from what he can tell. The sign is still up out front, grubby and proud. There are no flames peeking out from the roof or from windows. Here’s the bad: the air is hazy with smoke, and Dee is nowhere in sight.

“Dee,” Mac calls out, peering around into the alley. “You out here?”

She’s not dead, Dennis reasons. He was just talking to her, for one thing, and Dee’s quick on her feet for another; there’s no way she’s -

“Hey,” Dee says, poking her head around the door. The tightness in Dennis’ chest loosens. “Jesus Christ, okay. You’re here.”

“Where’s the fire, then?” Mac says, sounding pissed. “What the hell, Dee, you scared the shit out of us -“

“I fixed it!” Charlie’s voice calls out from inside. “Fire’s fixed. I think.”

“How do you fix a fire?” Dennis says, shouldering past Dee and half-walking, half-running into the bar - where he’s met by the sight of Charlie, sweaty, filthy, and covered in soot, taking a long swig from the beer bottle in his hand. “Dee made it sound like the goddamn bar was gonna go up in flames.”

“So we thought it was,” Charlie says, wiping his hands on his trousers. “Like - you should’ve seen it, dude, I came in here about an hour ago, the whole place was filled with smoke - but then I poured a shitton of water down there, and I taped the door up real good, and now I think we’re in the clear.”

Dennis squints at him.

“You taped up the door?”

 _“Why_ did you tape up the door,” Mac says. Charlie glances between them both, his expression approaching incredulous.

“Oxygen, bro! Fires can’t grow without all that oxygen and shit. And I know every way in and out of that basement, so I taped them all up, and there’s no way any air is getting in there. It’s just gonna burn itself out.”

“I don’t think that’s how this works,” Dennis says.

“See, that’s what I thought,” Dee cuts in, “but I think Charlie has a point. It’s burning itself out.”

“You sure?” Mac says, doubtfully.

“There’s way less smoke in here now,” Dee says. “The fire alarm hasn’t gone off in a while. I think we’re all right.”

Dennis’ heartbeat, second by second, is starting to slow down.

“So it’s sorted, then,” Mac says, slowly. “The bar’s okay.”

Charlie nods.

“Bar’s fine. Basement’s fucked, but, y’know. Frank can pay for it.”

Mac runs a hand through his hair, biting his lip. He hasn’t showered, and he’s wearing the same shirt he slept in - and maybe it’s the adrenaline of it all, standing here on the edge of something that could’ve been terrible, but Dennis starts to wonder if it’s time.

His list is still two bullet points away from perfection. That’s the only hurdle he’s seeing. Maybe that doesn’t matter, though - because his chest feels strange and full, like it’s about to burst with every unsaid thing Dennis has hidden there, and he wants to do it now. He _needs_ to do it now. He needs Mac to know.

“Oh, shit,” Mac says, suddenly. “Dennis, dude, all our stuff.”

Dennis frowns, caught off-guard.

“What?”

“We left all our shit down there,” Mac says, “we - yesterday, remember?”

The realisation smacks into him like a hammer meeting glass. It hits low and terrible in his gut, dread seeping out from the epicentre: his jacket, down in the basement, already burning. The notebook and all its pages up in smoke.

“Help me get the tape off,” he says. It feels like he’s talking in a dream.

“Dennis,” Mac says, slowly.

“Help me get it open,” Dennis snaps, running over the basement door, its frame surrounded by heavy layers of duct tape, tugging roughly on the handle with both hands - and then Mac’s arms are around his chest, pulling him back.

“There’s no point,” he says, “Dennis, Den, c’mon -“

He isn’t crying. This is something wilder, sharper edged; he claws at Mac’s forearms, breathing gone ragged, feeling like he’s going to explode out of his skin if Mac doesn’t let go -

Until everything raging inside him fades, suddenly, to eerie nothingness.

He goes still. Mac’s arms loosen and he slips out of them. Dennis breathes in, then out. In, then out.

“Dude,” Mac says, darting after him as Dennis walks quickly towards the alleyway door. “Where are - Dennis, where’re you going?”

Dennis wrenches the handle down; his unsteady feet carrying him into the bright, unforgiving light of the morning. He doesn’t reply.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> some things!!  
> \- thank u so, so much for being so patient. i'm sorry the wait was so especially long this time around. u are all saints and i love u dearly  
> \- this bitch is 14k. i tried making it less than 14k, but it stubbornly insisted on being the length that it is. if any spelling or grammar errors slipped thru the cracks, please lmk x  
> \- three more chapters to go my loves!! one big one, and two slightly shorter epilogues. we're nearly there  
> \- hmu on [tumblr](https://macfoundhispride.tumblr.com) if ur feeling it  
> \- <3


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> cws for discussion of mental health, references to csa, sensory overload, dissociation, and dennis being a bastard man.

The final few days of August are stretching out like a cat in the sun. Lemon Hill smells like cut grass and heat.

It was a long ride over. Dennis hadn’t been keen on it but Dee had insisted - she has friends to meet with, apparently - and he’s not exactly going to sit at home by himself while she has all the fun. They’d only had to stop once, and only briefly, darting in and out of the convenience store to buy drinks. The heat of the day isn’t quite at its worst.

They’ve tied their bikes to the same long stretch of wire fence. Dee’s already ditched him for a group of girls laughing down by the picnic tables and sunlight is beating down on the back of Dennis’ neck, making him feel sticky and sleepy all at once: shadow space is at a premium, the same way it has been ever since this heatwave reared its head. He’s managed to snag a spot underneath the cool, shadowy expanse of the old walnut tree. Luck must be on his side.

“Can you watch my stuff?”

Dee’s already taking off her shoes and dropping them on the ground, slightly out of breath from running over. Dennis frowns.

“No.”

“Dennis,” Dee wheedles. “C’mon. We’re gonna go down to the river.”

She flicks her fringe out of her face, shifting restlessly from foot to foot. Dennis rolls his eyes.

“ _Fine_. Whatever. Put it down over there.”

“Thanks,” Dee says - she’s there for barely a second, a momentary Dee-shaped blur, shrugging off her jacket and kicking off her shoes, before she darts over to the picnic tables again.

Dennis stretches his arms up above his head. He lays back slowly on the grass. Sunlight dapples down through the leaves up above: catches in the water bottle by his side and reflects on the ground in hazy little waves, the kind you see at the very bottom of a pool.

Two weeks left, Dennis reflects. He spins a blade of grass lazily between his fingers. Two weeks, and then he’ll be stuffed in some classroom, suffering through his first week of ninth grade - but for now, the warm haze of summer is still sitting heavy on his skin. He’s been fourteen for all of five days. The world feels endless, brilliant, and new.

* * *

 

“I’ll go after him,” Dee is saying. Her voice sounds muffled through the walls. Mac cuts her off.

“Dee, don’t -“

“Get out of the way,” Dee snaps, and then they both pick up volume and Dennis shoves his palms up against his ears.

He could run. His keys are jammed in his pocket, digging into his thigh. He could go now and drive and keep going until he’s outrun the humiliation by a few states. Instead he finds himself staggering to the wall of the alley and leaning against it, his head tilted back. The world swims blurrily above him. He tries to focus on not throwing up.

_This is your fault. You did this. You let your guard down._

Another flurry of shouting explodes from inside - Dennis tunes it out and slumps further against the wall; the ground is damp but it doesn’t really register. The world outside his body flickers in and out of focus.

He lays his palms out flat on his knees and curls his fingers, resisting the urge to pinch. Someone nearby is breathing weirdly, too fast and oddly jagged. Dennis opens his eyes, looking around for the culprit so he can tell them to fuck off, until he registers distantly that the noise is coming from him.

“Stop it,” he says. He can’t tell if he says it out loud. “Stop.”

The sky is grey. The sky is grey, it’s October, he’s wearing a blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up. The basement was on fire and it isn’t anymore. The notebook existed and it doesn’t anymore. His fingers feel too hot. The mossy bricks behind him feel too cold. There’s damp soaking into his clothes. Dennis inhales again: still shuddering and unpleasant, but slower. He draws his legs up to his chest.

Maybe he’ll just stay here. He can watch the faint outline of the sun trek across the sky and when it starts to get dark he’ll go back to the apartment, slip silently into bed. He’ll go to sleep and today can be over.

There’s a crater in Yellowstone. It’s been there a while. Dennis would know, since he fell asleep on the couch last week listening to some guy from PBS yap on about it. The whole thing is green, the lava and the ash all long gone. There’s even a river wound around the edges like a ribbon. It’s been 70,000 years, give or take, since it last made its presence known, so in Dennis’ opinion you can forgive the earth for forgetting to be cautious: for letting trees put down roots in deadly places, but the fact remains that nothing goes smoothly forever. The worst will always happen - or it does when he’s involved.

“Dennis?”

Mac’s voice drifts into his subconscious like smoke. The back door creaks open, then closed.

“I, uh.” Mac clears his throat. He sounds like he’s yelled himself hoarse. “I cleared them all out, dude. If you wanna come back inside.”

When Dennis looks up his eyes land on Mac without trying, and it sends a jolt of adrenaline shooting through his stomach for reasons he’s too tired to figure out. Mac’s hands are tucked nervously in his pockets like he doesn’t know what to do with them; he’s biting his lip that way he does when he’s trying to stay quiet.

“Dennis -”

“I need to tell you something,” Dennis blurts out.

Mac cocks his head.

“Okay,” he says, slowly. “What’s -”

“Not here.”

It comes out just as rushed as before. Dennis clenches his fists and stares up at the grey sky, willing himself to slow down.

“Not out here.” Keeping his voice even is a struggle. “I don’t want to do it out here.”

Not in a shitty alleyway. The plan may be literally and figuratively up in smoke but Dennis has standards and Mac deserves better: he’s not doing it out here.

Mac’s frowning. He inclines his head towards the bar - Dennis nods tersely, and Mac waits for him to get to his feet before opening the back door again. Dennis trails after him like a ghost.

The back office still smells faintly burnt. There’s a ringbinder open on the desk, Frank’s shitty handwriting visible in the margins - Dennis feels a bitter pang run through him that something so stupidly mundane could survived untouched, but Mac breaks the silence before his spiral has time to take shape.

“What’s up?”

His voice is too gentle. It makes Dennis want to throw something. Mac reaches out to touch his shoulder and Dennis shrugs him off, shaking, panic rising up again like bile - this isn’t how he wanted it to go, he can’t remember anything -

“I had a book. In my jacket.”  
  
“That notebook you’re always hauling around?”

Dennis freezes.

“How do you -”

“Dude,” Mac points out. “We live together.”

Of course. Of course, Mac would’ve noticed. He’s dumb but not blind. That means it was never a secret - not completely. Not the way he wanted. He can add that to the list of shit that turned out wrong.

Dennis scrubs one hand over his face.

“There are some things,” he manages to get out. “That I - that I’ve wanted to say to you. For a while. And I had them in there.”  
  
“Dennis -”  
  
This is really the way it’s going to happen, apparently. Surrounded by the stench of smoke and under the dingy fluorescence of the office’s ceiling light. Dennis would laugh, if his body didn’t feel it like it was about to collapse in on itself.

“Thank you for giving me the benefit of the doubt.”  
  
Mac’s puzzled expression deepens.  
  
“You’re... welcome?”  
  
“I’m not finished!” Dennis hisses. Mac raises his hands.  
  
“All right, all right, Jesus. Keep going.”  
  
Dennis opens his mouth, then closes it again when the words get caught deep in his throat. He stares at the floor.  
  
“You’re doing really good,” Mac offers. Dennis shoots him a look, his mouth curled into a sneer, but it turns out that looking at him at all was a mistake: Mac’s expression is way too earnest. It makes his stomach drop.  
  
“Thank you for staying.”

Mac takes a step closer, not looking away from him. The words are slipping out before he has time to think it through.

“Thank you for staying with me,” Dennis says, and Mac’s so close now. Close enough to touch. He wants Mac to touch him and anchors him down to the ground. _Keep talking_ , he tells himself, but he feels clumsy, out of place, his heartbeat is skittering wildly in his chest, and it’s -

“I can’t.” His voice cracks in the middle. He hates how ugly it sounds.

“Dennis -“  
  
“I can’t, I - I had it written down and it was better, I swear, it had -”  
  
“You were gonna say that for me?”

Mac sounds breathless. He’s holding back laughter, probably; he’s about to tell Dennis how pathetic this was, and how pathetic he is.  
  
“No,” Dennis snaps. “I was going to say other shit to you, that was better, and it was supposed to be -”

“Romantic,” Mac says, softly.

Dennis swallows.

“Efficient.”

The silence that rises up between them feels deep enough to swim in. He clears his throat and stares down at the ground - two seconds pass, three, and then Mac breaks it with a sigh.

“Dennis.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Remember what you said in the lawyer chick’s office? About how I’d feel better if I just admitted it?”  
  
“I wouldn’t, though.” Dennis laughs, but it feels like he’s choking on it. It feels like every word is scraping his insides raw. “Mac, I’m not like you.”  
  
“Dude,” Mac says, rolling his eyes. “C’mon, don’t pull this shit, I know you came out to Dee -”  
  
“No.” Too loud. Dennis swallows; tries again. “No, I I don’t mean like that. I mean… I don’t feel things like you. I’m not…”  
  
He shudders. Mac twitches on the balls of his feet, like he wants to step forward.

_I don’t feel things like you. None of this makes sense to me. I don’t know what I’m doing._

“It’s hard,” Dennis mutters. “It’s… this is hard for me, all right, that’s why I wanted to write it down, so I could - I wanted to remember.”

“Remember what?”

“Don’t,” Dennis says. His eyes feel itchy and hot.  
  
“Dennis -”  
  
“Stop it,” Dennis snaps, “stop asking me things. I don’t know.”  
  
His cheeks are wet, he realises. So is his chin.

“I don’t understand,” Mac says. He sounds helpless and it makes Dennis wants to claw his own fucking eyes out.

“That was the point! That was the whole point, Mac, I  _knew_ you wouldn’t, because I knew I - that’s why I wrote it down, so - so this wouldn’t -”  
  
“Okay,” Mac says, lifting his palms in surrender, talking over him,  “okay.”  
  
He takes a step back towards the door. That’s bad. It doesn’t feel right.  
  
“Please don’t go,” Dennis blurts out.

“I’m not going,” Mac says. “Not going anywhere, man. I’m right here.”  
  
He’s watching Dennis now, quietly. Like he’s waiting for something. Dennis focuses on the patch of freckles just visible above the neckline of Mac’s shirt and counts them in silence as he breathes.

 

* * *

 

They meet at just gone four in the afternoon.

Shadow real estate, as everyone knows, is a business that gets more and more lucrative as the sun gets higher. There are groups sat under every tree now, soaking in the shade like nesting birds - Dennis was hoping his corner would be the exception to the rule, but apparently that’s too much to ask. The two kids that flop down a few feet away from him are both out of breath, but he honestly can’t tell if it’s because of exertion or the argument they’re apparently so intent on having.

“I’m telling you,” the shorter one says, insistent. “I’m telling you, dude. It’s got a W in there. Like this.”

“It’s not a - don’t take the pen!”

“How am I supposed to show you without the -”

“I don’t need you to show me,” his friend says stubbornly, “‘cause I already know how to spell it. Shove off.”

Dennis props himself up onto his elbows, peering over to see what they’re staring at. There’s a line of what looks like the same word written on the second kid’s forearm - all the way down from his wrist to his elbow, each one a different spelling.

Dennis frowns.

“You’re both wrong.”

The two kids turn to stare at him in eerie tandem. Dennis rolls his eyes.

“You’re both spelling it wrong,” he repeats. “There’s a J in the middle.”  
  
The second one lifts his chin high, glaring at Dennis with doubt written all over his face. His cheeks are pink with peeling sunburn, dark hair flopping in front of his eyes.

“Yeah? How d’you know?”

Dennis sighs. He leans forward, snatching the pen up and writing the letters out crookedly on the other boy’s palm: m, a, r, y, j, a, n, a.  
  
“There,” he says, satisfied. “I told you.”

There’s a brief silence.

“I’m Charlie,” the first kid pipes up. “And this is Ro-“  
  
“Mac,” Charlie’s friend insists, loudly. “Come _on_ , dude. How’s it gonna catch on if nobody says it?”  
  
“Dennis,” Dennis says, returning the high five Charlie offers him - and as he says it Mac yawns, his cheeks pink from the sun and his dark eyes scrunched shut. Dennis decides, with particular certainty and for no real reason at all, that they’re going to be friends.

 

* * *

 

“Do you think I could’ve been different?”

There’s another silence. Mac doesn’t bolt out the door, but he doesn’t move forward again either.

“I don’t know,” Mac says, slowly. “I mean - maybe we all could’ve been a little different. Why does it matter?”

Because we didn’t get enough time, Dennis thinks. Because they’d had those few weeks, the fading spark of summer - and then ninth grade had been it. It had been the library, the first time Barbara threw a bottle at the wall after finishing it, the first time Dee stopped eating. Mostly it had been the library.

He should’ve realised. He should’ve done something different: told someone, acted out, _anything_. A sinkhole opens up inside your life and you don’t even notice, what kind of person does that make you; but Dennis has seen polaroids and class pictures, and he looks so young in all of them that it makes it hard to breathe.

“Of course it matters,” Dennis snaps. “How can you say that, how can you even -”

“Because it still would’ve been you!”

Dennis shudders as he snorts an empty laugh, and he keeps his eyes shut tight.  
  
“You don’t _know_ -“

“Yeah, I do,” Mac says, stubbornly. “If you get to torture yourself thinking about all the other Dennises, I get to think about all the other versions of me, right? And there’s no way I wouldn’t be where you are. And if you and me are there, Dee and Charlie are gonna be there. And Frank, like, he has that weird honing signal thing when it comes to Charlie, so he’d probably -”

“But you can’t prove that,” Dennis says.

“Bullshit,” Mac retorts. “I don’t need to -”

“You do!” He’s yelling for real now. “Yes, you do, because you can’t just say baseless shit to - to _comfort_ me, when we both know it’s not -“

He wants to keep shouting, but his throat’s closed up.

There are a hundred bodies hidden inside him: the spectres of every person he’s tried and failed to be. Dennis keeps them out of sight so he doesn’t have to watch their slow decay - successful in his twenties, loved in his thirties; someone softer edged, sweeter minded - he’s tried so many times but he can’t get it back. Whatever it was he lost, it’s still missing from him now. He can’t find it. He only knows the absence.

The weird anger that was in the room with them has flickered out. Mac’s looking at him like he doesn’t know how to look anywhere else, and Dennis is looking back, caught up in him, his throat still raw.

“It was a really good list,” he blurts out. He doesn’t know why he says it.

“I believe you, dude,” Mac says. He steps forward, lifting his hands like he doesn’t want to be read as a threat. His dark eyes are soft and steady.

Somewhere down the line, they’re going to make a mess of things the way they always do - skinning their knuckles as they pull up from a nose dive at the last possible second. There might come a day where they fall. There might not, and this could be all there ever is: the two of them, just as they are, and the world laid out ahead of them. He doesn’t know which one scares him more.

“I believe you,” Mac repeats.

One of his hands has settled tentatively on Dennis’ shoulder. He’s stroking his thumb back and forth and the only sound in the room, in the world, is the soft rustle of Dennis’ shirt and their quiet breathing.

Dennis drinks too much. The piece of shit bar he owns is ten thousand dollars in debt. He has a bad habit of trying to hold moving things in place, clutching at them too tight and leaving claw-marks all over in the process. He’s quick to anger and slow to soothe: there’s a part of him that‘s gone half wild, spitting and feral, and he suspects it’s going to stay that way. He is capable of very ugly things. He has made far, far more enemies than he has friends. He suspects it’s going to stay that way.

Mac’s hand slides up behind his shirt collar until he’s cupping the back of Dennis’ neck. Dennis sees the invitation for what it is and decides to take it - he steps forward, his hands curled tight in the front of Mac’s shirt - and the world finally, _finally_ , slows down.

Dennis presses his mouth to Mac’s bottom lip again and again, brief and unsteady, and Mac catches him mid-kiss, slides his tongue into Dennis’ mouth to ease him into a rhythm that’s less frantic. His other hand settles on Dennis’ hips to pull him in. Up close like this, Dennis can feel the steady rise and fall of his chest. Mac tastes sweet like borrowed chapstick. Everywhere their bodies are touching feels warm and they kiss until they naturally break apart; until it’s just the two of them stood close, still sharing space, their foreheads pressed together.

“You really wrote all that about me?”

Dennis pulls away a little, blinking from the brightness of the ceiling light. Mac’s staring at him. His bottom lip is caught between his teeth, and there’s the trace of a smile hiding on his face.

“Don’t,” Dennis warns.

“Just saying.”

Except Mac’s voice implies that he _isn’t_ just saying it, and the grin Dennis spotted before is out in full-force now - Dennis rolls his eyes and swats Mac’s shoulder out of habit more than anything else. Mac tries to grab his hand but misses, leaving his left side open: Dennis jabs him there and exhaustion rushes into him as he does, thick as a flash flood. He gives up on bickering to move closer and duck his head into the hollow of Mac’s throat again.

“What are you doing?” Mac murmurs.

“Conflict de-escalation,” Dennis says. His voice is muffled but Mac must hear him because he huffs out a laugh, his breath hot on Dennis’ skin. He presses his mouth to the centre of Dennis’ forehead, just briefly.

They stand there a little while longer. Dennis can hear the tapping of rain start on the roof. Eventually, there’s the familiar creak and slam of the bar’s front door; the sound of several loud voices all talking over each other following suit. Mac curses under his breath.

“I told them to get lost,” he mutters. Dennis snorts.

“You thought that would work?”

“Yeah,” Mac says, defensively. Dennis lifts his head to look at him, eyebrows raised, and Mac’s posture wilts a little. “Well - okay, not permanently, but -“

“Mac, they’re cockroaches,” Dennis says. “It’s a lost cause.”

“I’ll get rid of them,” Mac promises, stepping away towards the door - Dennis pulls him back, linking their fingers together again. He doesn’t manage to get any words out but Mac seems to know what he means anyway, because he stills under Dennis’ touch. He lets Dennis stand close to him.

_There’s no way I wouldn’t be where you are._ Except there are ways, thousands of them: Dennis has no way of knowing who he could’ve been, or what the exact choices were that led them to stumble into each other. Nobody knows those things. It’s an impossible promise to make.

Just this once, Dennis decides. Just for today, Mac can be right. He doesn’t need to know.

Something smashes on the other side of the door. Beer bottle, maybe, if he had to guess. He can feel it when Mac winces.

“We should go supervise,” Dennis says. Mac groans.

“What happened to staying here?”

Dennis rolls his eyes.

“We should go supervise,” he repeats, flicking him on the arm for emphasis, “before Frank has an idea, and we have to do damage control.”

“Goddamnit,” Mac mutters. He runs a hand through his hair and shuts his eyes, the poster boy for reluctance. Dennis can feel his mouth quirking into a smile despite himself.

“Come on.”

“Yeah, all right,” Mac says, waving him off. “Whatever.”

He lets Dennis take hold of his hand, though, despite all the bitching. That must count for something.

There’s an argument already in full swing when they walk out into the bar. Apparently it’s engaging enough that nobody bothers to look their way when the office door clicks shut behind them. Nobody acknowledges them at all, in fact, until they reach the booth where everyone’s sitting, and then Dee kicks Charlie in the shins - forcing him to him shuffle up so Dennis can sit down next to her, Mac pressed close on his other side. She glances over at Dennis as she does, their eyes meeting for a second. Dennis nods. Dee looks away, the set of her shoulders relaxing a little.

“The hell have you two been?” Frank asks sourly.

“None of your business,” Dennis says. Mac laughs, even though it isn’t funny. His fingers are still curled loosely around Dennis’ under the table.

“This is ridiculous,” Charlie is protesting. “I mean, what do you need a different license for, anyway? Car, truck, bus, y’know, what’s even the difference -“

“It’s like I was sayin’.” Frank sounds dark and mutinous. “It’s a crock of shit. We’ll get around it.”

“It’s a safety thing!” Dee snaps. “You are not getting around it. My god, how is this not sinking in.”

Charlie rolls his eyes, takes a swig of beer - the argument continues, sprawling out lazily into the air, but Dennis isn’t listening. He squeezes Mac’s hand, just enough to get his attention; Mac glances at him, caught in-profile. Dennis leans forward and kisses him briefly, because he can. He can hear water splashing down the broken gutter outside but the bar is dry, and it smells of spilled beer and cheap leather and everything familiar in the world.

Dennis’ breathing is steady. Mac’s skin is warm to the touch. The rain falls soft and slow.

 

* * *

 

They’ve been talking on and off for a while, Dennis knows that much. At one point he let Charlie drain the dregs of his water bottle and Mac passed around a crumpled pack of gum, but time feels a little dream-like, shapeless - like this moment could stretch itself out into eternity and then some, just the three of them shooting the shit and laughing about nothing, watching the sun perch low on the horizon but never quite set.

“Anyone know what time it is?” Mac says. Dennis glances at his watch.

“Half eight.”

“Shit,” Charlie mutters. Mac pats him on the back - catches sight of Dennis’ confused frown and says, “his mom’s got him on a 9pm curfew.”

Dennis whistles lowly.

“Mrs Kelly’s nice, though,” Mac adds. “She’s a really good cook.”

Charlie snorts.

“Dude. My mom burns everything, you only think she’s good at it ‘cause your mom doesn’t even -“

“Shut up,” Mac warns. Charlie lifts his hands in surrender.

“Whatever,” he says. “Dennis, you wanna come with us?”

Dusk has snuck up on them somehow, creeping into the sky like spilled ink. The tree’s shade has become just cold enough to be uncomfortable and the idea of sitting here alone isn’t nearly as enticing as being wherever Mac and Charlie are, but -

But.

“I’m waiting for someone,” Dennis says. Mac frowns.

“Who?”

Dennis glances over at him. Mac looks back curiously, twirling a blade of grass between absent fingers.

“My sister.”

“Cool,” Charlie says. Dennis sighs.

“She’s not,” he clarifies. “But if I leave without her she’ll throw a fit. So.”

Mac shrugs. He drags himself to his feet and offers a hand out to Charlie once he’s up, tugging him to his feet. Then they’re both brushing grass off their clothes, stepping away - and Dennis can physically feel the moment his decision slots firmly into place.

“Fuck it,” he says, shoving Dee’s crap in his rucksack and slinging it over one shoulder. “She’s been gone hours, anyway.”

“There we go,” Charlie crows. Dennis rolls his eyes.

He’s too tired and sleep-warm to ride anywhere, so he forgoes the bike, leaving it tied up where it is. The three of them meander out onto the sidewalk, dragging their feet, shoulders brushing. The cloudless sky is turning dark at the edges. It’s cold enough now that Dennis unwinds his jacket from his waist and puts it on.

“Catch you tomorrow?” Charlie says eventually, stopping at an intersection. Mac rolls his eyes.

“Duh,” he says, and Charlie snorts out a laugh as he ducks the hand Mac tries to shove him with, and then he’s gone - heading along a side street that curls to the left and out of sight. Mac glances at Dennis as he steps closer to fill the Charlie-less gap between them.

“I live further down. You coming?”

“I need to double back,” Dennis says. “If I walk home without Dee my mom will kill me.”

He doesn’t move, though - and Mac doesn’t either, just scuffing slow circles on the sidewalk with the toe of his sneaker. They stay there for a second or so, caught up in silence, until:

“Charlie and I were gonna sneak into a movie tomorrow.”

Mac’s eyes flick up to meet Dennis’ as he says it, eyebrows raised. Dennis cocks his head.

“Is that an invite or what?”

“Sure.” Mac shrugs. “I mean. If you want.”

There’s a short silence.

“Sure,” Dennis says, slowly.

Mac grins at him again: the same flash of a smile Dennis remembers from a few hours ago. The sun is in his eyes. It’s making them all crinkled at the edges.

“Cool.”

He takes a few steps back, still facing Dennis - lifts one hand up in a lazy wave. Dennis watches him walk away, just for a second, before turning around.

 

* * *

 

_You do not have to be good._  
_You do not have to walk on your knees_  
_For a hundred miles through the desert, repenting._  
_You only have to let the soft animal of your body_  
_love what it loves._  
_Tell me about your despair, yours, and I will tell you mine._ _  
_ _Meanwhile the world goes on._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [x](https://macfoundhispride.tumblr.com)


	13. Chapter 13

_November 8th, 10:35am_

_Philadelphia, PA_  


* * *

  
  
The tour bus scheme, in the space of just under two days, dies a swift and ungainly death.  
  
It’s been three hours since Frank drove them all into the Schuylkill. Countless showers later and Dennis is still finding flecks of dirt in his hair - he’s beginning to think, at this point, that it may be permanent - and that’s how he ends up spending most of his afternoon frowning into the bathroom mirror, trying his best to wash away the last of whatever’s sticking stubbornly to his face.  
  
“I mean, this is exactly what I’m talking about,” he says. Mac makes a faint sound of agreement from behind the shower curtain. “The man has no goddamn sense, this whole thing was a disaster right from the start -“

“I liked Charlie’s idea,” Mac’s voice says. “Y’know, going to the theatre and stuff? That sounded fun. We should’ve done that, dude.”

Dennis frowns. He picks at a speckle of dirt near his hairline.

“Pass.”

“ _Dennis_.” Mac sounds wounded. “Doing the musical was a blast, how’s a play any different -“

“It’s a play about worms,” Dennis points out.

“So what?”

“ _So_ , being in love with you doesn’t mean I’m willing to embarrass myself for your sake. I‘m not being a worm onstage.”  
  
“What?”  
  
Dennis carefully dabs moisturiser around his jaw.  
  
“I said,” he repeats, “I’m in love with you, I’m not doing the worm play, can we please continue this conversation after I’ve done my face?”  
  
There’s a pause. The water stops suddenly, and then the shower curtain gets pushed back and Mac’s sopping wet torso and tousled head of hair appears, looking annoyed.  
  
“Dennis,” he says, slowly. “Dude, I know you didn’t just confess your big gay love for me in the middle of a bathroom.”  
  
“Clearly I did,” Dennis snaps, scowling as he blends the cream up over his cheekbones. “If you weren’t listening that’s not my fault.”  
  
“Oh no,” Mac says - and, Jesus Christ, he’s getting out the shower. “No, no, no.”  
  
“Jesus Christ,” Dennis groans, “don’t get out the shower-“  
  
“This isn’t fair!” Mac whines, stood behind him on the bathmat and still, somehow, managing to spread water everywhere in a one metre radius. “Dennis, you’ve never said it before! And then you go and drop that on me while I’m washing my balls?”  
  
“That’s a delightful visual,” Dennis mutters, putting the moisturiser bottle back in his make up bag. “Thank you, honestly -“  
  
“Dennis,” Mac says. Dennis doesn’t need to see him to know that he’s pulling one of those peculiar pout-scowl hybrids he’s so good at. He turns around on the spot and sure enough Mac’s brows are furrowed, the corners of his mouth comically downturned. It’s almost cute. Dennis is never admitting that out loud.  
  
“Say it again,” Mac says, stubbornly. Dennis rolls his eyes.  
  
“Doesn’t that cheapen it? Having me say it on demand?”  
  
“You can’t cheapen something if you’ve only heard it once,” Mac retorts. “Especially if you never even heard it properly the first time - which I didn’t, by the way, ‘cause you’re a piece of shit who decided to -“  
  
Dennis takes a half-step forward, cupping Mac’s cheek in one hand, and then he leans in and kisses him simply, just once. His fingers curl against Mac’s cheek. His other hand lifts up to card through his hair.  
  
He can feel it when Mac starts to grin - he can feel it when Mac’s arms loop around his neck, pulling him in closer. Mac kisses him again and again, each once giddier and messier than the last, until Dennis pulls away, wrinkling his nose.  
  
“Mac,” he says, exasperated. His eyes slip shut as Mac laughs and starts to kiss down his jaw.  
  
“You don’t care, though,” Mac says; disbelieving, delighted, the kind of voice that suggests Dennis is going to be hearing about this for the rest of the week. Possibly for the rest of the year. “You don’t _care_ , Dennis, ‘cause you’re -“  
  
The truth is that Dennis does care, but he’s decided to care about this more. Mac’s smile and the way it makes the corners of his eyes crinkle; Mac’s kisses, the freckles splayed out on his shoulders, Mac’s hands on his skin. He nudges Mac’s nose with his own, tilting his head up again until they’re face to face.  
  
“Shut up,” he advises. Mac snorts. His hands slip down to settle over Dennis’ wrists, his thumbs brushing over them like a lighthouse guiding a ship home to harbour: he presses closer again, ducks his head. His damp hair brushes across Dennis’ forehead.  
  
“No take backs,” he murmurs.

Dennis lets it happen. Just this once.


	14. Chapter 14

_December 10th, 5:30pm_

_Philadelphia, PA  
  
_

* * *

  
  
“Is it me, or is it getting colder?”

Dee’s scarf is caught stubbornly on the top button of her shirt. She tugs at it for a few seconds before managing to coax it free in a single, unexpected pull that sends her stumbling back into the front door. There’s a quiet snort of laughter from in front of her.

“Stop it.”

“Didn’t say anything,” Annie says, mildly. Dee can hear her footsteps coming closer. “And yeah, it is. That’s how seasons work.”

“You know what I mean,” Dee says, but it’s difficult to stay irritated when there are soft hands brushing against her neck, unwinding the scarf and hanging it on the hook by the door - Annie carefully tucks a stray hair behind Dee’s ear and that’s it. That’s the final straw.

She tastes a little like wine. Caught off-guard like this, mouth still half-parted around a word, it’s easy to coax her into fuller, deeper kisses; Annie makes a contented sort of sigh, her fingers still playing with Dee’s hair, and it’s all going well right up until she pulls back, frowning.

“All right,” she says, sounding unimpressed. “Spill.”

“Spill what?”

“Dee,” Annie warns. She slides her hands down Dee’s arms, twining their fingers together. Dee sighs.

“He seemed pretty nervous when I dropped him off,” she mutters. “That’s all.”

Annie comes in close - close enough that her short brown curls are brushing Dee’s forehead, that Dee can smell the clean bright smell of her shampoo - she slides her arms around Dee’s neck like they’re dancing, swaying them gently from side to side.

“It’s his first session,” she points out. “I think you’re supposed to be nervous.”

Dee makes a half-hearted, non-committal sort of sound. Her hands run restlessly over the back of Annie’s shirt.

“Are you worried?”

“I…” Dee begins, and then she catches sight of the look Annie is levelling at her, and she swallows. “Well, yeah. Not that - look, I don’t care, but yeah. A little.”

“Mac’s meeting him afterwards, right?”  
  
Dee snorts.   
  
“He’s already in the waiting room,” she says. “I saw him bitching at one of the nurses on the way out.”

“Exactly,” Annie says briskly, like that settles things. Then, softer: “So. Come on. I’m not making dinner alone.”

 

* * *

The sleet starts at around 11. It doesn’t settle and it’s mostly just rain, but it’s nice to watch anyway - especially from where she’s lying, warm and sated on the sheets.

“I knew it would work,” she mumbles into her pillow. Annie snorts.

“Yeah?”  
  
“Yeah,” Dee says, yawning. “Right from when I showed Mac that stupid video of the football players. I knew he’d buy it.”  
  
Annie’s back is to her. Dee reaches out lazily to tug an errant strand of her hair, and the sheets rustle as Annie rolls over, hooking a leg over Dee’s hips to straddle her lap.  
  
“You know,” she says, conversationally. “This was super devious.”  
  
Dee frowns.  
  
“Are you pissed? I did it for their own good. And mine, but - y’know. I had pretty good intentions.”  
  
“Relax,” Annie says, laughing. She leans down to brush their noses together, and she whispers, “I think it’s hot.”  
  
“You think it’s hot I manipulated my brother?”  
  
“I think it’s hot,” Annie says - she rolls her hips, and Dee shudders - “that you masterminded a plan to help two idiots realise they were in -“  
  
“I masterminded a plan to get out of my lease and move in with you,” Dee corrects. “The other shit was just a side note.”  
  
Annie snorts.  
  
“Seriously,” Dee insists.  
  
“No, I believe you,” Annie murmurs against her mouth. Dee arches up to close the space between them.

Somewhere across town there’s her brother and Mac, playing house in her old apartment. In all the years she’s known them they haven’t changed, except for all the ways in which they have - but then they’ve all changed. Who you are is just a trick of the light. You can always reshape yourself. Sometimes you’ll do it so quietly and slowly that nobody notices. Not even you.   
  
Annie leans down and kisses her again, sweet and slow like honey, her dark curls falling to frame her face. Dee stops thinking at all.


End file.
